


In Flight, Two Boys

by lobst_r



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Introspection, M/M, Oblivious, Pining, Pining while fucking, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Quidditch, Rough Sex, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2020-10-21 18:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 29,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20698136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobst_r/pseuds/lobst_r
Summary: Maybe it was some Gryffindor bravado that possessed him to do it, maybe it was a bout of real madness – but Oliver decided, in that very moment, to rock onto the balls of his feet and press his lips to Flint's perpetual scowl.---In which Oliver Wood does nothing without giving it his all, Marcus Flint gets over issues the size of a hippogriff and they both go professional after leaving Hogwarts.Or: Pining, dry-humping in a cupboard after evading Mrs. Norris, heated stares in the prefect’s bathroom, blizzard flights and shouting matches across the Great Hall. Also, introspection of some kind.





	1. ONE.

They broke apart in a sweaty heap, limbs thrown every which way. The four-poster bed gave out a last creaky whine before the heavy curtains dropped down with an unceremonious thump. Marcus only gave a muffled grunt, heart still threatening to beat out of his chest from the vigorous fucking.

“Honestly,” Farley made an attempt at sitting up, feeling around for her wand. “Why in Salazar’s name does this keep happening? _Reparo_.” The swathe of emerald green samite lifted itself off their naked forms, slotting back onto the bedframe.

Marcus didn’t offer her an answer. He had known Gemma Farley and her sharp tongue for the last seven years, and she had never been particularly bothered by the approval of her audience. They had met up straight after dinner and gone two rounds in his dormitory - Farley hadn’t managed to come the first time.

Marcus still had Quidditch practice. They’d booked the field every evening for the entire week with a few helpful signatures from Snape. His mind drifted off while she summoned her knickers from his side of the bed, going on about the two rolls of parchment they owed fucking McGonagall until the end of the week.

“Who gives a buggering fuck, Gem?”

“Excuse me, aren’t you failing transfiguration, you complete dullard? You can put away your cock now, just letting you know.”

“You liked my cock just fine five minutes ago.”

“We’ll, it’s served its purpose,” she did up the last few buttons of her blouse before straightening out her hair with a few flicks of her wand. Farley had always been so put-together, top of the class, prefect, a demanding screamer in bed.

“Tomorrow?”

“I have to study potions tomorrow,” she stepped over to him and held on to his cock like she owned it before stroking it back to hardness. “And so do you, Flint.”

\--- 

That was the very heart of the matter: Marcus didn’t study. It was a wonder that he had made it to his last year at all. He simply did not see the sense in it – why was is necessary that he learned all twelve bloody uses of dragon’s blood? Or the fucking whatist-treaty signed between Urg the Unclean and whichever minister of magic happened to be in office?

He’d voiced his thoughts to his father during the summer of his second year, and that remained the one and only time. The cold wrath of Reginald Flint had not spared him as a snot-nosed twelve-year-old, cowering in the kitchens with their old house elf. Zippy had made him a secret hot chocolate that night, waiting by his bedside until he’d drunk up to vanish the cup.

For all intents and purposes, the only two things he was any good at were flying and fucking. And while his talents were few, Marcus prided himself in being the absolute best in them, surpassing pretty boys like Diggory in reputation. Not that he ever bothered to listen for idle gossip, but the beddable population in Hogwarts was limited and word got around.

And quidditch? Quidditch made up his very being. A day without flying, without touching a broom, was a day wasted. End of the tale.

\---

Pucey and Warrington both received a proper tongue-lashing during training for their sloppy broom-handling. Derrick and Bole, the complete imbeciles, almost collided mid-air with their bats raised. Malfoy, the lazy little git, blabbered about writing his father one too many times, but Marcus made them all do laps and hold formation until Madam Hooch turned off the lights after her third warning yell.

There was current of frustration strumming through his spine, but it was one of the satisfying type, like the scratch in his throat after a good, heart-felt scream. He shut down all grumbling and complains with thinly veiled threats and shoved Malfoy up against the wall of the broom shed for good measure, right next to their spanking new Nimbus 2001s.

Bletchley, the incorrigible twat, approached him while they were making their way back to the castle. “I heard Gemma Farley screamin’ like a banshee jus’ after dinner,” he told Marcus in that light, put-upon conversational voice he used to sound nonchalant. “So that’s still going strong, I suppose?”

“You can suppose it’s none of your damn business,” Marcus said, but his words were drowned out by his team cackling out loud. Derrick and Bole high-fived each other, for whatever reason, while Malfoy wore a hungry look on his pale, pointy face. Hungry for information, most like.

“I heard something about Weasley and the Ravenclaw prefect –”

“Bo – ring,” Montague intoned.

“Which Weasley?”

“How ‘bout all of them?” That garnered some guffaws and another high-five between Derrick and Bole.

“Fucking bloodtraitors,” Malfoy bit out, a tad too harshly for the jovial back-and-forth.

Marcus watched them toss around, holding his tongue. Terence Higgs had almost hexed him to shreds and promised him that replacing him with the Malfoy brat was something he’d bitterly regret come the start of the season. But seven new Nimbuses spoke for themselves, and Marcus had never been anything but utilitarian when it came to Quidditch.

Still, he didn’t like the arrogant little twat.

All of a sudden, the prospect of sitting in the common room with his team seemed less than palatable. Higgs still wasn’t speaking to him and most of his other mates spent their evenings revising for N.E.W.T.s., writings essays on antidotes and transfiguring buttons into bugs.

Now that really turned his stomach.

“You lot go ahead, I forgot the blasted playbook.”

\---

Flying in the dark gave him a feeling of absolute exhilaration.

He knew the grounds by heart: he could loop right through the goal hoops, skim the top of the stands with his shoes and press himself flat on the back of his new Nimbus and trace the grassy pitch with the tips of his fingers. The broom reacted to the slightest touch and didn’t at all vibrate like his retired old Cleansweep when flown too high.

Up and down he went, flying in formations with imagined teammates, dodging make-pretend bludgers and scoring a dozen goals against thin air. Marcus knew he was grinning like a loon, but who gave a sodden damn. He was all by himself.

The lights flickering from the castle’s numerous windows were already guttering out, one by one, when he finally drifted towards the ground. He left the broom hovering above ground by a few metres and flipped himself, holding on by the back of his knees with the world upside down.

Blood rushed to his head, but the position felt childish and familiar. Comforting in a way few things did these days. He could almost hear Zippy’s croaky squeak, going on about how “young Master Flint’s head will explode”. In the lonely darkness he could admit to missing his old house elf.

“Ahem,” a bodiless voice said to his left went and Marcus tumbled to the ground, landing painfully on the top of his spine.

“Fucking, bollocking – _lumos_!”

Oliver Wood shielded his face against the sudden beam of light, dressed in his Quidditch robes and holding his broom. “Flint,” he barked, a familiar urgency in his voice. “_Nox_ it, you daft idiot, I had to sneak past Filch to get down here.”

Marcus had a few choice words to say, but the tip of his wand went dark first. He hadn’t noticed that it was already way past curfew. Detention was something he could ill afford, on top of all the revising he wasn’t doing and the assignments he wasn’t handing in.

“So. How’s the bribery treating you, eh? Good flying on those Nimbuses?”

Marcus grunted. He didn’t know how to talk to Wood without an audience, without his mates standing around, a leering crowd. He was self-aware enough to know that, so he kept his lips shut over his troll teeth.

Wood snorted, made an aborted gesture in the dark and kicked off the ground, up into the sky with a fluid motion. Marcus had to give him that: the Gryffindor was a damned good flyer, one with the broom and agile as a hippogriff in flight.

He stood and watched for an indefinite amount of time.


	2. TWO.

“– even though his face could use some improvement –”

“– you’re such a fucking slag, honestly. Wait, give me that! _Scourgify_. There, put that back on.”

“Honestly, you’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t do him, have you _seen _his shoulders –“

“And he’s a twenty-eight, your parents must love that. Wouldn’t even mind you getting knocked-up –“

“– have you heard Gemma though? She’d never keep shagging him if he was shite –“

Oliver sat hunched over his copy of Advanced Potion-Making, growing more irritated by the second. He leaned back a few inches in his seat, glancing at the gaggle of Slytherin girls behind a shelf of books on numerology. They were half-whispering, quieting down when Madam Pince swept past, growing louder when she went on to admonish a few first years over chocolate frogs.

“He’s right fit.”

“And a pureblood.”

“Still, honestly, that ugly gob…”

“I would take Flint over Warrington any day,” one of the girls said haughtily, sitting up straight while the others shushed her. 

Oliver smacked his book shut, gathered up the things that had cluttered around him during the two hours he had spent in the library and headed back towards the Gryffindor tower. It had been a shit day, to say the least – he’d gotten a rather abysmal grade from Snape (a P, to be exact) and a load of extra work to hand in for the next day. Then quidditch had been cut short by Marcus bloody Flint and his posse of Slytherin wankers, _again_, with yet another signature from Snape.

He sat by the dying fire in a gloom, attempting to go over the mistakes his old spell-checking-quill had made. There had been a feature article in Seeker Weekly on Lev Zograf, the Bulgarian keeper that had made it to France (Clermont-Ferrand, second in the league standings) and had let through only four quaffels in the last two games. The blasted day had been so busy that he had never gotten back to reading it.

“_Incendio_,” he murmured towards the last embers of the fire. Fred and George were still huddled together with Lee Jordan while Harry and his two friends occupied another corner, speaking in hushed tones. The flames flickered.

Then, as if hit by a lightning bolt, Oliver sat up straight and gaped at his parchment. The Slytherin girls in the library – they had been speaking about Marcus bloody Flint.

\--- 

Oliver was as pureblood as they came – which was to say, not very pure at all. There were questionable folks in his family tree, aunts and second cousins that lived in Muggle Edinburgh, a great-grandmother from Eastern Europe who had been a spirited expert on bowtruckles but never provided a pedigree. His last name was fairly established in many parts of wizarding Scotland, but they had never bothered proving their blood-status beyond any doubt.

Unlike the Blacks, Malfoys and Lestranges. The Flints.

It bugged him all the way through his evening routine. Eighty-three and a half push-ups, seventy-seven crunches, six minutes of stretching and a brisk shower later, he lay in bed and occupied his head with outdated pureblood customs. His own parents had married for love, this he knew. It was almost unimaginable – an arranged marriage straight out of Hogwarts, for the sake of blood purity and golden galleons. 

He could hear Percy murmuring behind the curtains of his bed. Still studying, the complete lunatic. 

Oliver fell asleep on top of the covers, thoughts about pureblood fanatics and quidditch still swirling in his head in a strange mixture. He dreamt of playing in some final, dressed from head to toe in blinding white with Snape acting as referee. He was primly informed during time-out that the pitch was going to be set triangular for the second half.

“Why the buggering fuck would you do that?” he screamed at the bald little man from the ICWQC, smacking at his floating clip board.

“Well, Mr. Wood – there’s a wedding going on. A pureblood wedding.”

And there was Marcus Flint, fitted in hideous bright green dress robes, looking bored out of his mind. Oliver stormed towards him, fist raised, before promptly waking up from the chill. He scurried himself under the covers, slept soundly for the rest of the night and didn’t remember a thing in the morning.

\---

The issue didn’t pop up again until he ran into Flint a week later in the prefect’s bathroom.

Oliver had pushed his team through a gruelling practice session before assigning himself a hundred more laps in the needling autumn rain. The twins had complained about not feeling their toes and fingers while Alicia had duplicated her gloves for Angelina to wear. He didn’t realize how right they were until he was trodding up the stairs, dripping water everywhere to the meowing of Mrs. Norris. 

He found himself standing on the fifth floor in front of the statue of Boris the Bewildered, blurting out the password (“Squeaky Clean”) before he could stop himself. There was an ache in his thigh muscles from holding position on his broom for hours on end – Oliver hated resting, but it was a necessary part of playing.

Lo and behold, he was greeted by the impressive shoulders of none other than Marcus Flint, reclining between the golden bath taps, soaking in steaming violet water. The annoying mermaid on the stained-glass windows waved at him coquettishly, tossing back her hair before settling down and batting her eyelashes at Flint.

Flint, who was turning to look at him with his eyebrows raised. They grunted in unison, a mutual sign of agreement to hold the peace.

Oliver held his breath for a moment – the room smelled minty, like powdered peppermint toads. His eyes kept dragging along the broad slope of Flints shoulders while he stripped out of his practice robes in a few efficient movements. For some unfathomable reason his heart was jumping around like an enraged doxy.

He remembered the Slytherin girl in the library going: “Have you _seen _his shoulders?”

Yes, he bloody well had.

Flint wasn’t looking at him, but his lopsided jaw was tensed in a familiar half-sneer. Oliver knew that look from their numerous confrontations. He’d always thought Flint an unpleasant fellow, to say the least. Arrogant for sure, violent and cold at times. A Slytherin if there ever was one. The Weasley twins had planted suspicion concerning his troll heritage after a particularly nasty match last year. It was just _that _easy to despise him.

“The fuck are you staring at?”

Oliver almost swallowed the snowy bubbles that were streaming out of a tap to his right: “Nothing. What’s to stare at?”

Flint only gave a disgusted snort. He had the unique talent of making all kinds of people, from snivelling first-years to unimpressed teachers, feel his disdain. It made something inside Oliver harden. He kicked off the wall, swimming a lap towards the far end of the tub. He noticed the purpling round bruise on Flints left pec while making his way back.

“Bludger got you?” his big mouth said, and before he could smack himself across the head, he was stopping, standing on the tips of his toes to reach the marble basin ground.

Flint gave him an incredulous stare before slowly saying: “Yeah.”

“Well, no wonder, your beaters are shite.”

“Is that right, Wood?”

“They’ve no tactical skill. Defensive players always need to know their tactics.”

“They need to stay on their broom and hit the damned bludgers.”

“That’s where you’re dead wrong, Flint. Beaters should never just be flying muscle with bats, the trajectory of the bludger can be _game changing_, you hear me? No, honestly, listen to this: I had the Weasleys do a dopplebeater defence tonight, and –“ Oliver stopped himself, feeling his ears flush. He had gotten into a rant, as he was wont to do when it came to quidditch.

“Go on, Wood,” Flints scowl had disappeared. It was replaced by a sly grin that showed the edge of a crooked tooth. “A doppel defence, is it?”

“I haven’t given anything away,” Oliver found himself yelling. “The doppel is standard beater practice!”

“The main task of the beaters,” Flint drawled, “is to aim and swing hard. And tell team colours apart. They do the brunt work. So _chasers _can fly the formations without losing their jaws. Simple as that.”

“But that’s _bollocks_!”

“Chaser is the oldest position in quidditch,” Flint said, unimpressed. “They’re meant to be the main –“

“Oh, don’t lecture me on quidditch history,” Oliver hissed. He was feeling rather warm, treading the hot bath water and gesturing with his hands. Bubbles the size of his head went flying every which way. “I knew you’d be a bleeding traditionalist on this. What, do you have Derrick and Bole read _The Beater’s Bible _and tell them to take out the seeker first thing before every match?”

“Can’t have them reading now, can I?”

Oliver laughed. He was surprised by the sound of his voice, echoing in the large room. The mermaid, he noticed from the periphery of his vision, had turned away with an angry huff at the lack of attention they were paying her. When he focused on Flint again, the sod had already heaved himself onto the deck. Oliver got an eyeful of a lean, toned stomach and a dark happy trail before he ducked under water in sudden panic.

When he resurfaced again, Flint had already towelled and dressed himself, going out the door without a backwards glance. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ICWQC - International Confederation of Wizards Quidditch Committee


	3. THREE.

“Mr. Flint, a word.”

Marcus groaned inwardly, stopping in his tracks to return to McGonagall’s desk at the front of the classroom. A wet sponge was dutifully wiping away the laws of vanishment, a subject that had been so far beyond his grasp that he had simply stopped listening during the last two hours.

Pucey shot him a grimace from the door before pulling it shut behind himself, leaving Marcus alone under the scrutiny of McGonagall, who was taxing him with her sharp gaze over the rim of her squared spectacles.

“Your last assignment was abysmal, Mr. Flint.” She handed him the parchment. It was bright red with correctional ink. “You barely qualified for my N.E.W.T.s class. I’m afraid you shall fail them if this carries on.”

Marcus looked down to his shoes and said nothing. His father had picked his N.E.W.T.s subjects for him, using a voice that left no room whatsoever for arguments. Not that he’d ever been particularly prone to arguing with his father, what with the lifelong ingrained fear, distrust and yearning for approval.

He muttered something about giving it his best, rewriting the assignment, doing better and not letting quidditch keep him from studying.

It was all hogwash, of course. He skipped charms and sneaked out to the empty quidditch grounds right after speaking to McGonagall, skipping lunch in favour of doing aggressive zigzags high up in the air. The icy clouds caught in his brows and lashes, but he forged ahead, loving the height and the occasional far away glimmer of the lake. He watched the sunset from high above, skipping dinner as well. The pale, wan autumn sun sank into the far horizon and for a moment he managed to think of nothing at all.

\---

  
They lost the first match against Oliver Wood and his Gryffindors the second week of November.

It rankled Marcus to no end, and his foul temper grew blacker than ever. He lashed out at his teammates on a regular basis, forcing them to train in the punishing cold, doing laps and holding formation late into the evenings. Gemma Farley had to restrain him during their post-dinner fucks with a few well-placed _incarcerous_’. Her ropes were always silken and never cut him, but the sex left him with a distinct feeling of anxiety.

He called it off at the end of the month.

Farley, ever the proud Slytherin, stopped talking to him and looking over his transfiguration homework. It was a full-blown disaster.

He ran into Wood at the beginning of December. It had recently started snowing and the grounds around Hogwarts were decked in a blinding white. Marcus had been pouring over his playbook with the newest issues of _Which Broomstick_ open on his lap when Wood came jogging through the door of the office the four Quidditch captains shared.

Oliver Wood always had the air of someone supremely busy about him. The way he walked briskly, the way he started steaming the snow from his robes, the way he seemed completely lost in his thoughts. It all sparked a heavy annoyance inside his chest, made him want lash out and punch something.

“Flint!” Wood barked in his typical fashion, eyes narrowing in mistrust. “It’s late.”

Marcus didn’t bother answering. Wood was flushed from the cold outside, the tip of his nose a bright pink. He was bold enough to look right back when Marcus continued to stare him down, raising his eyebrows at the continued silence.

“Not one for talking after your loss? Didn’t know it would hit you that hard, Flint.”

Marcus kept his silence, but the anger was swelling behind his ribcage. He desperately needed to break something. That, or mount a broom into the flurry of snowfall. He chose the latter with gritted teeth: _You mustn’t serve detention, you mustn’t serve detention, you mustn’t serve detention_, he told himself silently, over and over.

“Hey, HEY FLINT! Where are you off to? It’s a blizzard out there!” He could hear Wood yelling, but his vision had grown rather narrow and he had just managed to remember the extra work he had promised Flitwick for the end of the week. Marcus felt like he couldn’t breathe.

The snow had, indeed, intensified. Marcus disregarded everything and pushed himself off the ground, veering slightly to the left, letting the wind drag him along before pulling his poor Nimbus into a vertical upward climb. His face ached with the cold, but it felt fucking amazing. He worked his broom against the wind, higher and higher, until all he could see was a cloudy mass of white.

Then, several moments later, Wood broke through the fog, letting out a whoop that was swallowed by the wind. Marcus couldn’t see the Gryffindor properly, but he could also scarcely believe that someone would be stupid enough to come out flying in this weather.

Except him, that was.

But Wood was pushing on, pushing even higher. Marcus could spot the red of his robes whipping to and fro, and within seconds, they were racing. Up and down, through the clouds and the tumbling snow they went, vision whitening out for seconds at a time. Marcus flew his angry, arrow-straight lines before forcing his broom in another direction. Wood chased after him in great loops, letting the wind blow him off course before veering back in with incredible bouts of strength.

The wind had lessened by the time they drifted back towards the ground, though the snow was falling heavier than ever. They landed metres away from one another, both gasping for air. Wood had a large smile frozen on his face, teeth glistening white in the semi-darkness.

He looked handsome, breathtakingly so.

The thought occurred from nowhere, and Marcus shook his head to clear it.

They waded back towards the changing rooms through the fresh, powdered snow drifts, always with a few steps worth of distance between them. The sudden brightness and heat was almost disorienting, and Marcus sat down on the nearest bench with a graceless plonk. He was absolutely soaked, though with sweat or melting ice he couldn’t even tell.

“Hey…”

It was Wood again, looking at him with wide brown eyes.

Marcus upped and left, not bothering to get changed.

\---

  
All his father would speak about during Christmas break were the attacks happening in Hogwarts. He questioned Marcus about the petrified students, their family backgrounds and blood-status. There was a satisfied glimmer in his eyes, a slight curl to his upper lip that made the skin on the back of Marcus’ neck crawl.

He felt a vague sense of guilt over not caring. He hadn’t learned the names of the first and second years that had been attacked. He hadn’t even bothered overly much when his house mates had laughed about it in the Slytherin common room. A malicious sort of laughter, borne out of a haughty sense of security.

“Young Master must take care of himself better,” Zippy told him when he visited the old elf in his corner of the pantry late at night on Christmas day. “There are awful things happening in Hogwarts, oh yes. Awful things, awful.”

“I’m alright, Zip. Pureblood and all, remember?”

The elf only shook its head, watery grey eyes huge in the dark. They sat and talked until the early morning hours. Marcus sipped on honeyed tea, cramped in a corner next to bags of potatoes, while Zippy ate his stale bread soaked in lukewarm water.

“Can we not get you new teeth?”

“Oh, no, Young Master Marcus, Master Reginald wouldn’t allow that. Oh, no.”

“Of course he wouldn’t. At least we don’t chop your heads off like the Blacks do with their house elves.”

Zippy gave him a watery, toothless smile, sticky gums showing. Marcus immediately felt awful. The thought of Zippy’s head boarded onto the hallway made his stomach twist. He reached out and placed a hand on the elf’s shoulder, engulfing most of his torso.

“It is lonely here without Young Master Marcus, oh yes…”

“It’s fucking lonely in Hogwarts as well.”

“Language, Young Master.”

“Listen, Zip – could I write you? From Hogwarts?”

“The Young Master wants to write Zippy from school,” the elf repeated back to him, brows furrowed.

“Well, yes. Could you make it so my parents never see the owl?”

Zippy broke out into happy tears. It was a better Christmas gift than the banged-out pot he had come up with last year.

\---

  
Going back to school after the stifling dinners at home was a relief.

Marcus started seeing the eldest Greengrass sister, Calliope. It was another relief, in some ways, to fall back into the old pattern of fucking and flying.

She had approached him first, with her brass balls and loud voice, and asked him whether he wanted some _company_ on the next Hogsmeade weekend. They ended up staying in his deserted dormitory, fucking the living daylights out of each other. Greengrass was harsher than Farley, and more careful. There was barely ever foreplay and she used three different contraceptive spells in addition to the potion she was already taking.

“I needed that,” she told him firmly, afterwards. That was the highest of praise to be had from her.

Marcus didn’t mind. 


	4. FOUR.

Quidditch was cancelled and Oliver spiralled.

He felt for all the petrified students, truly he did. The mere sight of green robes was enough to make his pulse jump in anger and he was barely hungry anymore, eating purely out of habit. The scariest part was Percy, first (and very briefly) a blubbering mess and then a silent one. He was truly gone for Penelope Clearwater. Oliver had heard them sneaking around at night, the breathy sounds they made together in bed.

But what got to him most of all was the ban on flying. It made him feel like a cooped-up lunatic ready for a break out. With prefects and teachers alike patrolling the corridors in pairs at night, he had nowhere else to go but the Gryffindor common room and his four-poster bed.

Oliver did the only thing that felt right – he quadrupled his evening routine and spent an inordinate amount of time on the carpeted floor, pushing past the limits of pain, punishing his muscles until he could barely hold a quill come morning. 

He also spent a lot of time standing close to the open window, inhaling the cold night air, trying to recall the exact rush only flight could give him. His mind kept conjuring the night he’d went out flying in the snow. It had been so utterly, completely reckless – what with the wind and the snow, but he’d never felt more exhilarated, heart beating out of his chest. He had felt on the verge of life and death itself, cheesy as that sounded.

And Flint.

Merlin, he couldn’t stop thinking about Marcus bloody Flint.

\--- 

“Did you hear? Flint and Greengrass are –“

Oliver stopped himself from surging upright, turning his head slightly towards the two whispering Slytherins while chopping his knotgrass into tiny specks. Snape was at the other end of the room, vanishing the contents of a cauldron with a lazy flick of his wand. Double potions was always a blasted, terrible affair.

“Gemma Farley is spitting mad, she is.”

“He broke it off, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, I swear, he’s supposed to be daft in class, but –“

Oliver snapped his eyes back to his bubbling calming draught. It had turned an unpleasant orange, much like the Chudley Cannons jersey. Mixing in the knotgrass and stirring counter-clockwise four times calmed the colour back to a mellow pink. Percy tutted at him, nose buried in his book.

“Calliope wants to bag him, I bet you. They’re both leaving at the end of the year –“

“If there’s even a school to leave by then.”

The Slytherins giggled. Snape swept by, ignoring their extracurricular conversations with a benevolent nod. Oliver almost choked on his anger. The fucking snakes never bothered to hide their amusement when it came to the petrified muggle-borns. He quickly swallowed it down when Snape advanced on him and continued his stirring.

The thoughts didn’t leave him, nagging at the back of his mind. Even when Alicia and Katie told him about the youngest Weasley’s disappearance in the early evening. Ginny, he remembered while going through his one-hundred-and-twelfth push-up. A tiny slip of a thing, a red-head like the rest of her family. 

Oliver felt close to banging his head against the wall while lying in bed. Percy was absent, in shock and immobile with grief – everyone was out of their mind with worry. And his own traitorous thoughts kept circling back to Marcus Flint. The disgusting Slytherin git, he was probably having a laugh with his mates down in the dungeons, celebrating what was total destruction to all the other houses.

“You’re fucked,” he told himself out-loud. Someone made a shushing noise from across the hall. Oliver clamped his mouth shut and stared up at the canopy.

Flint was leaving, he realized. He was in his seventh year, close to taking his N.E.W.T.s and walking out the Hogwarts portal forever. Maybe he would be getting married soon, as traditionalist purebloods often did. Maybe to Calliope Greengrass.

Closing his eyes only brought on an onslaught of images from their blizzard chase. Flint had a lithe way carrying himself when on a broom. He was a ruthless flyer who didn’t ever shy away from collisions, but he was also surprisingly graceful for someone half a head taller than most.

Then, out of nowhere, the lights flickered on.

“They solved it! We’re havin’ a feast!” Lee Jordan barged in, braids flying behind him. He pulled Oliver out of bed before hurrying on to wake the others. “Merlin, get the fuck up, lads! We’re celebratin’!”

\---

All regular exams were cancelled.

Oliver and all the other sixth years suddenly found themselves with an unprecedented amount of free time until the end of the school year. Needless to say, he spent all of that time on the Quidditch pitch. His team joined him at times, in twos and threes, and on one memorable occasion they played a friendly match of three against three with a few chaps from the Ravenclaw team.

It was a good enough start to the summer.

Flint was nowhere to be seen, as was expected. The seventh years were all buried under heaps of books and parchment, working their way through their N.E.W.T.s. Oliver, in turn, ordered himself to bury all thoughts of hooded grey eyes, flying through flurries of snowfall and the downward slope of broad shoulders. It was time to face the music: he had, for reasons absolutely beyond him, developed a crush the size of a Quidditch pitch.

Oliver was nothing if not a pragmatist. Was he losing matches? The answer was harder training. Was he failing potions? The answer was to study until his eyes popped out of their sockets. Had he developed an unhealthy obsession with a rival Quidditch captain? Squash those feelings until they were ground to dust.

Even if he did decide to act, he argued with himself while flying loops around the goalposts, it wasn’t as if he was ever going to see Flint again. They would certainly _see _each other again, wizarding Britain was, after all, quite small. But there would never again be late night flying, or meeting in the prefect’s bathroom, or daily stolen glances across the great hall.

And when in the name of Merlin’s soggiest underpants had he noticed the colour of Flint's eyes?

\---

Oliver wrote Percy a few lines of congratulations ahead of their annual Hogwarts owl. He was sure to be made head boy in their last year. Percy, prim and proper as ever, wrote him back a lengthy letter, detailing the Weasley family holiday to Egypt and a list of books he had been revising for arithmancy.

He paid a visit to his favourite uncle Maxwell up in Aberdeen, where they spent three weekends in a row watching the local Quidditch Youth Championships (The Whinnyfold Wanderers won the finals by an incredible margin of four-hundred points against Blackdog United). Oliver’s youngest cousin Ferguson had only started playing chaser and he spent many an afternoon along the coast flying extra slow on his Cleansweep.

Uncle Maxwell’s old Ravenclaw mate from back in the day, Archie Abernathy, had been a scout for the Montrose Magpies for a few seasons in the seventies. It was through him that Oliver heard about Marcus Flint once again, over tea and biscuits.

“I reckon it’s a tight field, this year, ay? Magpies have got a few promising faces, mostly chasers, my old colleague Weston Magill, played for Wigtown back in 66’, mind you, he tells me about this wee Hogwarts graduate, Marius Flint –“

“Marcus Flint,” Oliver corrected him automatically.

“Right you are, sonny, you must’ve gone to school with him, ay? Well, they want him bad. Made an offer already, but the chap’s failed his N.E.W.T.s. Management won’t take him in, the tossers.”

Abernathy choked on his cup of tea when Oliver shot from his seat: “He failed his N.E.W.T.s?”

“Ay, all of ‘em. Didn’t think it was possible – I had three, meself, and I was right daft.” Archie gobbled up his finger of shortbread, chuckling.

“So the deal’s off the table, then? Magpies aren’t signing him?”

“I reckon he’ll repeat a year or something,” Abernathy said before turning the conversation to the league standings. Talking Quidditch would’ve normally occupied him well enough, but Oliver found himself, predictably, unable to think of anything else.

He asked his mum while de-gnoming the garden of their cottage. She was a Bulstrode on her mother’s side, and pureblood gossip always travelled fast.

“You know I don’t keep up with all that tosh, Oliver,” she said, but ended up knowing more, anyways. The Greengrasses, who had been in talks with the Flints (eldest daughter to only son and heir), had apparently sent their house elf to put an end to the negotiations.

“Because he failed his N.E.W.T.s?”

“Why, yes. And that’s why we don’t bother with the traditionalist side of the family.”

“Because they’re pretentious wankers,” Oliver said, tossing a gnome across the lawn. The little bastard bit his finger with two vicious, pointed teeth before sailing away into the horizon, but Oliver barely felt the sting.

There was something quite close to elation swelling in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's at all interested - I picked the title in reference to the marvelous novel "At Swim, Two Boys" by Jamie O'Neill, which in turn is a reference to the 1939 novel "At Swim-Two-Birds" by Irish writer Brian O'Nolan.


	5. FIVE.

Several things happened at the beginning of Marcus’ eighth year at Hogwarts.

First, he had a rather uncomfortable talk with Snape, who threatened him with remedial help should he dare to fail another year and renamed him captain of the Slytherin quidditch team all at once.

Then, a mere five days into bitterly revising for charms and writing half-arsed assignments for potions, Eudora Selwyn and Velebeth Rosier both came onto him with their respective propositions. Eudora, a haughty, strawberry blonde fifth year, he promptly rebuked on account of her age and the rather obvious ambition gleaming in her eyes.

Beth Rosier he kept guessing, but she reminded him too much of Gemma Farley to refuse outright.

“You know it’s become a rite of passage, or do you not?” Rosier asked him with a wry smirk while they sat next to each other at breakfast. “Fuck Marcus Flint, do your N.E.W.T.s, graduate into a respectable marriage. There’s a certain reputation to be had from shagging you.”

Marcus only grunted at her.

The third thing, well – the third thing that came his way was the bludger during the season’s first quidditch practice. It smashed into his face, knocking out all of his front teeth and breaking his nose to seal the deal.

He vowed to end Derrick, or Bole, or whichever of the _utter imbeciles _was responsible for the rogue bludger before passing out and dropping ten feet from his Nimbus onto the hard pitch. When he woke up two days later, Madam Pomfrey had already regrown all of his missing teeth, set his nose and treated his cerebral concussion with a host of spells and potions.

He looked decidedly different, after. It didn’t occur to him until Terence Higgs said it, point blank, in front of a bustling common room: Marcus Flint, for the first time in his life, had teeth straighter than a firebolt could fly.

His nose retained a slight bump and the smallest crook to the left, but all in all, Beth Rosier assured him while they made out frantically in an empty classroom, his appearance had improved by leaps and bounds.

\---

_Dear Zip,_

_Things are normal, except I’ve been hit by a bludger and they had to regrow all my teeth. I’ve been meaning to ask the school matron whether teeth regrowth can be practiced on non-wizards. Maybe I could regrow yours over Christmas. _

_ <strike>Hope you </strike> _

_ <strike>Tell mum</strike> _

_ _

_Say hi to your cousin Flop, I hope mother doesn’t treat her like shit. I always said that you needed some help around the house. _

_Best,_

_Marcus _

\--- 

As humiliating as it was to repeat seventh year, Marcus found a certain drive within him that had never existed before. He had signed a preliminary deal with the Magpies, detailing his position as reserve chaser for the 1994/95 Quidditch season on the sole condition that he finally pass his N.E.W.T.s.

Fucking and flying, flying and fucking – that was all he had ever been any good at. A reserve position with the Montrose Magpies would not only mean the world to him, it would be a giant middle finger right to his parents’ appalled visages, to Calliope Greengrass and her snob of a father, to anyone who had ever called him a troll behind his back.

He took out his copy of the signatures and read through it every night before bed. It was like a kick in his balls, every single time. There was something worthwhile waiting for him outside of Hogwarts’ walls. He could move out of Flint Manor, into some place of his own and live his own goddamned fucking life.

\---

Malfoy, the whiny little git, got his arm sliced up by a hippogriff and paraded around the castle waving his bandaged limb in everyone’s face. Marcus, who had been up and playing a week after his concussion, excused the little wanker from practice with his newly straightened teeth gritted.

It had its tactical merits, however. They pleaded out of the first match of the season on account of Malfoys arm. The castle grounds had been swallowed by rainfall so heavy the goal hoops were barely visible. Thunder interrupted their classes, even deep down in the dungeons Snape had to speak louder to be heard over the noise.

The weather wasn’t quite as thunderous as Oliver Wood, who shot Marcus dark glances in every subject they shared. Wood finally managed to corner him in the boy’s bathroom after charms, banging in and blocking Marcus’ path to the door.

“Your seeker is completely fine, Flint!” He spat out, eyes ablaze, hair still wet from an awry _aguamenti _they had been practicing in class. “I personally saw him rotating that blasted arm of his like a dancing veela.”

“Did you now,” Marcus answered, standing up straighter to face Wood’s wrath. “My, are you accusing us of cheating?”

“That is exactly what I’m fucking doing!” Wood announced, and his face was flushed with anger, ears and neck pink. “We bloody well trained for your blasted team, and the Huffs –“

“That’s your own fault, then, isn’t it?” Marcus drawled, heart beating faster, what with the escalating confrontation. “We could play any of you sorry tossers, any day now, because you never train for just one opponent, Wood. Shouldn’t your team be flexible enough to –“

“Oh, that is rich coming from you! Have you found any new beaters by chance –“

“You are an bloody awful tactician, Wood, face up to it –“

“Look at you lot, afraid of a little rain, aren’t you? The Magpies won’t like that.”

Marcus saw a few second years jump out of the way, than he was pushing Wood up against one of the toilet stalls, vision going hazy with cold anger. They had been screaming at each other like mad men, he realized belatedly before Wood was already shoving him, and then shoving became punching, though it remained unclear who started what.

That was exactly what they told Professor Flitwick five minutes later. One of the snivelling little second years had alerted the teacher. They both got detention. Wood looked ready to burst with anger, but wisely said nothing.

Marcus remained in a foul mood for the rest of the week. Wood’s comment on the Magpies made him spitting angry, made him want to break something, preferably some Gryffindor, preferably Wood’s pretty face.

It only appeased him a little when the dementors flooded the stadium and Potter fell off his broom. Cedric Diggory, the dashing sixth year Hufflepuff who had been newly made captain this year, caught the snitch in an impressive feat. Marcus watched in the stands, drenched to his bones, as Wood crash-landed in a puddle, defeat written in every line of his posture.

\--- 

Diggory, Hufflepuff that he was, offered Gryffindor a rematch during the first captain’s meeting under the watchful eye of Madam Hooch. Wood, with that typical grim look of his, refused in true Gryffindor fashion.

Marcus almost gagged while watching.

Ravenclaw, led by yet another pretty boy Roger Davies, flattened the Huffs in a truly saddening match at the end of November, Cho Chang catching the snitch within forty-four minutes. Marcus knew a good chaser trio when he saw one: Stretton, Burrow and Davies were a veritable scoring-machine when let loose.

“Why don’t you just knock one of them off the broom, then?” Beth Rosier asked him while in bed, eyes half-lidded with boredom while he groused over quidditch. “It’s not like you’ve ever minded a bit of cheating, Flint.”

“With Dumbledore watching? That’d be plain stupid.”

“Well, we’re not here doing quidditch counselling, are we?” Rosier rolled her eyes before unhooking her bra with a flick of her wand. She had heavy, rosy tits dusted with freckles and armpits charmed absolutely hairless. A sight that would’ve usually gotten his blood pumping left him cold, for some reason. He settled for eating her out before rolling out of bed, disregarding curfew and dodging Mrs. Norris with several detours through the castle.

Wood had touched upon a sore spot, this much Marcus could admit to himself. He couldn’t afford to play shit games in front of Magpie scouts, any scouts, contract or no. In all honesty, he had too much to lose. Slytherin wasn’t a one man show, far from it, but Marcus knew there was a certain threshold as to what could be achieved. Playing against Ravenclaw would be a right pain in the arse.

Marcus walked through a darkened corridor of the west wing, mind occupied with positions, formations and player stats. He picked a familiar route down a spiral staircase that would take him straight to the ground floor, taking two steps at a time, three when the angle allowed it –

_Crash. _

Marcus groaned, his ears ringing. Beyond the pain in his head he could hear muted cursing. Opening his eyes proved his first guess correct: Oliver Wood lay sprawled out next to him, mouth an unhappy downturn, nosebleed obvious even in the dark.

“You absolute tosser –“

“Why can’t you even walk normal –“

They both stopped in their tracks when a soft meow rang out to their right. Large green eyes stared at them without a trace of pity. Marcus registered vaguely, in the back of his mind, that Wood’s broom was clattering down the stairs in an unholy ruckus. 

“Buggering fuck,” Wood whispered, and then, without another word, they both surged up and ran. Behind them, Mrs. Norris gave a last warning meow before Marcus heard the uneven footsteps of none other than Argus Filch approaching.

“_Accio _broom,” Wood gasped out next to him, waving his wand mid-sprint.

Marcus, holding on to his own Nimbus, veered towards the left, where one of the standard secret passages was hidden behind a rather shoddy tapestry. Wood stumbled after him, the two of them racing past suit of armours that creaked in the dark. 

“Should’ve – fucking – looked where you’re going –“

“Shut your – damned mouth – the fucking cat –“

They were both severely out of breath when the end of the tunnel finally came into view. Marcus felt angry enough he could imagine choking Oliver Wood with his bare hands. There would be no flying for him tonight, not with Filch alerted and the blasted cat on his tail.

“Flint!” Wood bit out under his breath. And sure enough, they could hear Filch’s laboured breathing, getting louder and louder with the shuffle of his feet.

“In here,” Marcus whispered, and for some reason beyond him, he dragged Wood and his Cleansweep past the nearest door.


	6. SIX.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attention: Smut.

Oliver had never been particularly interested in the whole jumbled mess that was flirting, kissing, shagging and dating. Hogwarts was small enough that he couldn’t avoid the drama that grew out of the cesspit of a limited dating pool. Percy and Penelope Clearwater, breaking up over N.E.W.T.s of all things, that one time Lee Jordan asked Angelina Johnson out and got publically rebuked, George Weasely shagging Alicia Spinnet, Fred Weasely shagging Alicia Spinnet…

Quidditch, in all honesty, had always been his priority, ever since he mounted a wand-sized play broom aged one-and-a-half. 

Of course, there had been some spit-swapping over gulps of fire whiskey, awkward fumbling under the robes and dates at Madam Puddifoot’s kitschy mess of a tea shop. But in the grand scheme of things, these encounters never lasted, in reality and in his daily thoughts.

It was only fitting that he experienced just the tiniest bit of emotional drama before leaving this school for good. At least, that was what Oliver told himself while standing pressed up against Marcus Flint with just their racing brooms sandwiched between them. Outside the door of the cupboard, Filch shuffled about, muttering to Mrs. Norris.

Oliver held his breath and sucked in his stomach, dead certain that he was going to make a rather undignified noise if he so much as touched a corner of Flint’s quidditch gear. Slowly, the dragging steps of the caretaker departed, growing fainter and fainter while Oliver grew decidedly light headed from the lack of oxygen.

“Merlin,” he breathed out loud, sucking in air in loud gasps once the steps were far away enough to fade into silence.

“Shut it,” Flint whispered furiously, and not a moment too late. A high-pitched mew echoed in the corridor and Oliver slapped a hand over his own mouth. They waited in complete silence, unsure of whether the cat was still sitting outside their hiding place, ready to call for its master.

“I’ll murder that fucking cat,” Flint breathed. He was shaking with rage, Oliver realized after a moment. They were standing so close in the pitch-black darkness that he could feel the subtle movements. Flint had always been a foul-tempered bastard, Oliver reminded himself. He’d known that years before this blasted attraction reared its insecure head.

“I’ll kill it first,” Oliver whispered back, almost as a reflex.

“Oh, is that right, you fucking idiot. You’re the one that got us here in the first place –“

“I wasn’t the one skipping down the stairs in the middle of the fucking night, Flint!”

They both snapped their mouths shut when another, more urgent meow could be heard from further away. Oliver clutched at his broom with all his might and started recounting his favourite passages from _Quidditch through the Ages _in his head. He could feel Flint breathing, the controlled rise and fall of his broad chest. The git smelled like soap, sweat and broom polish, with a hint of lavender that the house elves always used in the laundry.

“Fuck,” Oliver heard himself whisper out loud. He had never been good at concealing things. His mum always said that he had an honest face, a face that betrayed every emotion he felt. Thank Merlin he was hidden in the dark, otherwise Flint, the arrogant prick, might take one look at him and just _know_. 

He had simply never met someone that made him so damned angry and aroused at the same time. Never mind that it was a bloke – Oliver had always known, on some theoretical level, that he appreciated boys just as much as girls, if not more. But it was Flint, and by Merlin’s soggiest trousers, he hadn’t ever held a civil conversation with the sod.

“Do you think –“

“Quiet,” Flint bit out, and sure enough, they heard a tell-tale cat’s cry at the far end of the corridor. Oliver gave a long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes in the dark. Typical Flint, giving out commands even when squished in a cupboard.

“Don’t you think it’s wisest to book it while the damned cat is still calling for Filch?” he whispered heatedly. “Or should we just wait here until he actually comes looking?”

“I think it’s _wisest _that you shut your damned trap, Wood,” Flint said out loud, anger making his voice rough. He pitched forward while Oliver leaned in to jostle him back and their faces collided. Oliver felt his nose rub against the prickle of Flint’s jaw, the sudden burst of heat from skin touching skin. Within seconds flat his entire being was on fire.

Maybe it was some Gryffindor bravado that possessed him to do it, maybe it was a bout of real madness – but Oliver decided, in that very moment, to rock onto the balls of his feet and press his lips to Flints perpetual scowl.

He felt close to exploding, every single sense heightened. It wasn’t unlike hovering in front of the goal hoops during a match, waiting for the quaffel to be thrown, whole body coiled in anticipation of a flight route.

Flint’s lips were chapped and dry, Oliver managed to note, dead certain that he was going to faint any moment now. His heart was beating so fast that it nonsensically felt like it had ceased to beat altogether. Then Flint’s right hand, the one that wasn’t holding on to a broomstick, placed itself on his shoulder and forced him away with a gentle push.

Oliver thought he might keel over and die, though out of sheer mortification or arousal over the giant paw resting on the junction of his neck, he couldn’t truly tell.

“You’re getting it everywhere,” Flint said quietly. The gravel of his voice sent goosebumps up and down Oliver’s back.

“Huh?” Oliver answered, all things eloquent and suave gone with that one kiss.

“Blood,” Flint answered, which made no sense at all until Oliver touched his face and felt the familiar slickness of a good old nosebleed leaking down his chin.

“Buggering shit,” he whispered, embarrassment taking over for good now. “I get them all the time, probably popped too many veins while playing little league, my old coach had this theory that even wee practice bludgers can damage…”

Oliver stopped running his mouth, because – well, because Flint was kissing him. The coppery tang of blood mingled between their lips, and Merlin, that was tongue. And who knew, but Flint was a really good kisser. Not that Oliver could ever presume to be the judge of such a thing, but he was growing weak in the knees and hard in his quidditch trousers.

“Finally found something to shut you up, Wood,” Flint said against his mouth, a familiar smugness in his voice.

“You shut up,” Oliver retorted promptly before tilting his face up again and tugging Flint downwards. The prick responded by taking a fistful of his hair and _yanking_. Oliver made an embarrassing noise in the back of his throat and then bit down on a slick lower lip, tasting fresh blood in addition to his dry, flaky nosebleed.

“You’ll pay for that,” Flint promised him, and then they both let go of their brooms, chests suddenly flush together. _Merlin_, Oliver could feel the familiar outline of an erection pressing up against his hipbone. He ground upwards, straining to the tips of his toes before dropping down in an agonizing drag that had both of them moaning out loud.

“As if you could make me, you’ve barely got Malfoy under control,” Oliver heard himself saying before being shoved up against a row of cleaning supplies, the hard edge of a shelf digging painfully into his spine. A few bottles of what he suspected to be Mrs Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover clattered to the floor. He carried on with the trash talk, exhilaration coursing through his veins: “Teach me a lesson if you can, _Flint_, some captain you are –“

Flint bit his tongue.

It smarted, made Oliver’s eyes water and his cock impossibly harder. They were grinding against each other with abandon now, breathing heavily and snogging as if it was going out of fashion. Flint dug his fingers into the narrowest point of his waist and dragged him upwards forcefully. That was the last straw. Oliver came while hanging on to Flint’s shoulders, sucking on his bitten bottom lip. It overwhelmed him so much that he barely managed to pay attention to Flint’s low, breathless groan.

Never in a million years could he have imagined something so pleasurable, something that excited him as much as a good game of quidditch. He felt decidedly dazed, all the fight gone out of him. He could’ve laid down and slept right there and then.

“Oi, Wood. Don’t fall asleep on me.”

Oliver jerked upright, detangling himself from Flint, grimacing at the sticky mess inside his trousers. The Slytherin pushed open the narrow cupboard door slowly, sticking out his head before stepping out entirely.

The moonlight was almost a tad too bright after being cooped up in the dark, confined space. Oliver fetched his broom still slightly dazed and followed Flint, who was checking the next corner for any signs of Mrs. Norris. His heart had picked up the fast beating again when he caught sight of Flint’s face, the lower half a bloody mess, his mussed-up dark hair and crooked collar.

“Coast’s clear,” Flint muttered.

They stood and regarded each other for a few seconds. Then Flint turned and disappeared behind the tapestry leading back to the spiral staircase. Oliver dragged his feet, eyes still blinking against the moonlight.

_Bloody hell._


	7. SEVEN.

Avoiding Oliver Wood, it turned out, was a sure-fire way to notice him all the more. 

Marcus suddenly saw him at breakfast, lunch and dinner, sitting with his mates at the Gryffindor table, laughing obnoxiously loud, taking the piss over quidditch magazines. He also noticed that he shared exactly four classes with him, something that he somehow hadn’t registered properly in the two months that had passed since the start of the school year. 

Wood had a lot of friends.

They were always calling out to him, waving at him in the corridors, making him stop and look at something or other. Weasley, head boy and Dumbledore’s pet student, sat with Wood during potions, transfiguration and charms. They couldn’t have been more different, yet seemed to get on like a house on fire. 

Marcus knew he was high in the Slytherin pecking order: he was as pureblood as any wizard could be, his family was reasonably wealthy and he was captain of the quidditch team. The sour respect he garnered by his last name alone had accompanied him through his entire Hogwarts career. 

His housemates respected him, even with his failed N.E.W.T.s. 

And of course, he had his mates from the team, Bletchley, Warrington, lads he’d known for years. Yet noticing Wood and his varied social circle made something inside Marcus itch viciously. 

So, he did what he did best and ignored every look Wood shot his way, walked past the Gryffindor without a sideways glance when their roads crossed on the quidditch pitch and kept to himself and the dungeons. He was, without a doubt, the master of cold shoulders, second to only his own father. 

\---  
  


“Hey, Flint!” 

Marcus didn’t bother turning around. He was on his way to the Owlery, letter for Zippy clutched in his right hand. He was going home for Christmas in a few weeks, but writing his old house elf had become a rather pleasant secret routine that occupied his Sunday mornings. 

Brisk footsteps caught up with him, Wood’s tousled bedhead coming into view. Marcus walked a little faster, but couldn’t help chancing a few more glances at the Gryffindor. There was, after all, a reason why they’d dry humped in that blasted broom cupboard: simply put, Wood was gorgeous. The miniscule part inside him that admitted to liking men had known it all along, the rest of his thick head catching up only now. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Wood said, waving around a sealed letter. He was full on smiling with his eyes crinkled, a faint flush high up on his cheeks. “We’ve practice in the afternoon, I’ve been up since six writing out formations – you realize we’re both playing Ravenclaw next spring, do you?”

They reached the top of the West Tower with Wood going on about several attacking formations for his seekers before recounting the latest scores from league matches that Marcus had already memorized. 

“I know the Harpies won, they played against the Cannons, for Merlin’s sake,” Marcus bit out. He hadn’t wanted to speak at all, but listening to Wood yapping on about quidditch made him borderline aggressive. 

“The Cannons won their last match against Pride of Portree!” 

“Gudgeon got lucky. Portree has shit chasers.” 

“Harry could play better than Gudgeon, honestly – no, I take that back. He  _ already _ plays better than Gudgeon.” 

Marcus called for his eagle owl, offering him a few owl nuts before tying Zippy’s letter to his leg. His chest felt constricted with irritation – he hadn’t planned on speaking to Wood, let alone hold a whole conversation with him. Everything inside him screamed to get back down to the dungeons. 

“All done?” 

Marcus turned around, almost bumping into Wood, who was standing uncomfortably close, so close that Marcus could count the pale freckles on his nose. He was petting a speckled tawny owl, long fingers carding through feathers. 

“This is Fletcher,” Wood explained, still smiling at him like they were the best of friends and housemates to boot. “He used to be our family owl, but my mum retired him after he had a few accidents delivering the mail.” 

Marcus grunted noncommittally before turning on his heels and walking away. He could hear Wood calling after him, but that was none of his concern. 

\---  
  


He didn’t speak to Wood again until the last week before Christmas. The workload of the seventh year had caught up with Marcus, once again, and he was buried under heaps and mounds of homework. He had yet to master the summoning charm properly, the objects he practiced on twitching half-heartedly at times, sailing through the air randomly at others. 

He revised transfiguration with Warrington one afternoon out of sheer desperation, though the poor sod seemed just as clueless. Marcus swallowed his pride and asked for remedial help the very next day. Snape, sadist that he was, assigned him none other than Percy Weasley, head boy extraordinaire and outstanding student in all his chosen subjects, which included Muggle Studies. 

The Montrose Magpies wanted him, he kept reminding himself. He had to get through this to play professional. 

Weasley turned out to be a decent tutor, if a very impatient, self-important one. He kept reminding Marcus of the levels of each spell he hadn’t yet mastered (“Summoning is O.W.L.s level, how on earth did you pass?”) and made him recite the best of Bathilda Bagshot at the end of every session (“Professor Binns spoke about the giant wars in fourth  _ and _ fifth year”). 

Marcus was tired enough to stop searching for the back of Wood’s head wherever he went. He had class, then he had tutoring sessions, quidditch practice followed in the early evening, more revising and homework waiting for him afterwards. Weasely never spoke about anything besides the exact contents of their books, so Marcus could rest assured that he wouldn’t hear a word about Wood’s life as everyone’s best mate and ray of sunshine. 

He still felt close to collapsing, practically wishing for winter break and a train ride back to Flint Manor. He and Beth Rosier fucked a few times, but it was half-hearted and unexpectedly boring, though orgasms always helped him with his restless sleep. 

\---  
  


Marcus was enjoying a soak in the prefect’s bathroom, one of his few indulgences, when Oliver Wood barged back into his life. He wasn’t the first disturbance of the evening. Roger Davies, Ravenclaw’s beloved dashing quidditch captain, came in first, whistling while stripping out of his robes and filling the basin with rays of bouncing water. 

Five minutes later Cedric Diggory walked in, striking up a conversation with Davies about league standings, exchanging niceties and tooth-ache inducing smiles while soaping up his chest with bubble-gum pink suds. They held small talk about the Christmas decorations in their respective common rooms and exchanged anecdotes about family traditions. 

Wood, of course, trudged in frozen blue from an overboard quidditch practice yet another five minutes later. Marcus kept to his side of the tub, annoyed beyond words but unwilling to yield his place to the three utter pillocks that were his fellow quidditch captains. 

“You look right pleased to see us, Flint,” Wood said while stripping out of his gear. Marcus didn’t answer, but his eyes couldn’t be kept from roaming lean, long legs and well-defined arms. Wood’s cock, which he’d felt through layers of clothing back in the cupboard, had a slight tilt to the left. 

“We could hold our captain’s meeting right here,” Davies joked, slicking back his wet hair and clapping Wood on the shoulder in greeting. 

Marcus felt a hot surge of anger and something he was unwilling to identify as jealousy. He turned to stare at the mermaids on the stained-glass windows – the blasted creatures were losing their collective shit over this many naked wizards. One of them had honestly managed to take off the painted shells shielding her tits, baring them in a rather brazen manner. 

“Hey there.” 

Wood had swum close to him, skin flushed pink with the heat of the water. Marcus grit his teeth, anger rising beyond the water level. Which part of his fucking body language suggested him being approachable and ready for small talk? The itch inside his chest was back with a vengeance, screaming for some punches to be thrown. 

“Fuck off, Wood,” he said instead, trying for bored and skipping straight to aggravated. 

“Lads, let’s not fight while in the bath tub, shall we?” Diggory said, hands raised in a placating gesture. Marcus shot him a glare. The utter twat.

Roger Davies let out a nervous laugh, twisting at a ruby-crusted tap until the entire room was clouded with fragrant blue mist: “So, Cedric, how are things going with Cho? No hard feelings after our last match?”

“No, of course not – those rivalries stay on the quidditch pitch,” Diggory answered amicably, shooting Marcus and Wood, who was splashing around nearby, an uneasy glance. “It’s great, actually. We’re waiting still, of course, she’s turning fifteen soon…” 

“Ah, I see,” Davies lifted a suggestive eyebrow and the two of them shared a grin. 

Marcus couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He chanced a quick look at Wood, who had turned to inspect a few golden taps. The Gryffindor had flaming red ears, he noticed. For a wild, unhinged second, Marcus imagined biting at a flushed earlobe, worrying it between his teeth until – 

“How about you, Oliver? Seeing anyone?” 

Wood floated himself back to the other side, bumping shoulders with Diggory. The blasted mist obscured his expression, but his uncomfortable laugh echoed through the room: “No, too much to do, you see. Quidditch and school work’s quite enough for me these days.” 

“You were always a determined one,” Davies, the fucking ponce, reached out and clapped a hand on Wood’s arm. “Weren’t you seeing Patricia Stimpson, though?” 

“Ah, that was ages ago, just some childish fling,” Wood waved away the clearing mist, before turning to Marcus like the incorrigible annoyance that he was. “What about you, Flint? Seeing anyone these days?” 

There was a challenge in his voice that made Marcus’ attempt at ignoring everything null and void. It stoked something vicious inside him: “I’m fucking Velebeth Rosier.” 

It was the blunt truth. Marcus leaned back and cherished the uncomfortable silence that settled over the room along with Davies’ blue mist. He raised an eyebrow at Wood, who was being quite still, wearing an unreadable expression. 

“Look at that, it’s almost curfew,” Diggory said, clearing his throat a few times. “Oh, yeah. Better head back before Filch comes looking,” Davies blabbered on. 

Marcus grinned, itch scratched for now. 

  
  



	8. EIGHT.

Oliver went home for Christmas.

He ate his mum’s cooking and laughed at his dad’s bad puns. Uncle Maxwell flooed in to visit with his children and they went down to watch the traditional boxing day matches in London. It was jovial affair, and not even the constant talk about Sirius Black could spoil the festive cheer. 

It was a good enough time, wonderful, really. 

Except that Oliver felt down whenever he was left alone. To be perfectly honest, he felt like a squashed quaffel, like a snitch with both wings plucked off while lying in his childhood bed at night. And all because he’d somehow gone and fallen hard like the complete blubbering idiot that he was. 

Marcus Flint had told him outright that he was seeing someone else, that night in the prefect’s bathroom. He’d said that he was fucking Velebeth Rosier, rinsed out his hair and left without a backwards glance. 

Fair enough, really. 

It was another way of telling Oliver that their midnight romp had meant nothing, that it had been just a bit of good fun for Flint. Oliver could accept that, or at least he told himself so repeatedly. He’d known Flint for ages now, when had the tosser ever been anything but blunt, vicious and cold? There was barely anything likable about the bastard anyways. 

Oliver knew himself well – he never did things halfway. People were often times irritated with his quidditch obsession or the dedication he put into practicing. He knew that his blasted crush on Flint wasn’t going to disappear any time soon, not with the way he still tugged himself off to thoughts of the thrice-damned cupboard encounter. Still, he promised himself that no one and nothing was going to keep him from playing and winning, least of all Marcus Flint. He was going to do his N.E.W.T.s and walk out of Hogwarts with his head held high, quidditch cup in hand. 

Oliver was dedicated, if nothing else. 

  
  
\---

The Slytherins played Ravenclaw after the start of term. It was a bloody good match, the chasers on both sides stealing most of the show. Davies, Stretton and Burrow were a formidable trio, well-attuned to each other and fast on their brooms. They scored a whopping nine goals in the first ten minutes. 

Flint, however, was bloody relentless. 

Oliver stood in the stands with his omnioculars, watching with his mouth half agape. There was no denying it, Flint was the drive of the whole Slytherin team. He was the one who barked orders, who held formations against defence, who knocked opponents out of the way. Montague and Warrington passed him the quaffel nine out of ten times and Merlin, did he score. 

A whole of twelve fucking goals by the time Ravenclaw called for time-out. 

“They’ll sic the beaters on Flint,” Oliver told Alicia and Katie, who were taking turns watching reruns through his omnioculars. He was feeling breathlessly thrilled, paired with an incandescent anger at himself for being so damned _ smitten_. 

“It’s what I’d do,” Angelina agreed from his other side. “Flint is on fire!” 

It was exactly what the Ravenclaws tried to do – except that Inglebee and Samuels were absolutely outflown. For one and a half hours they tried their best to hinder Flint from going near the goal hoops, which only resulted in him passing the quaffel on to his fellow chasers, who did the scoring in his stead. 

“No wonder the Magpies want him,” Fred or George Weasley said, voice full of disdain. “He’s still a nasty troll, though.” 

The Gryffindors in the audience let out a loud groan when Flint once again managed to duck under Grant Page and pass the quaffel back to Warrington, who promptly scored. 

In the end, it came down to Malfoy and Chang, though Flint was the one to alert his seeker. It was a narrow victory for the Slytherins and a bitter defeat for the Ravenclaws. Oliver could barely see Flint in the cluster of green and silver, all vying to congratulate him. 

He did, however, see a curly-haired brunet walk up to him and place a possessive hand on his chest later on. Oliver stayed in the stands until most of the students had cleared out, cursing himself for feeling hollow.   
  


\---

The Gryffindor team practiced five days of the week in the month before their match against Ravenclaw. There was a lot of groaning and complaining, but all in all, everyone seemed just as determined to win. Madam Hooch supervised them (actually, it was mostly Harry) against the looming threat of Sirius Black deep into the night. 

Oliver made himself train every single day, with or without supervision.

Against Percy’s counsel, he started taking his playbook to bed, and his uneasy sleep was filled with spiral dives, formation looping and Wronski feints. He started dreaming up absurd tosh: Flint scoring against him, arrogant smile in place, while Oliver scrambled to make saves until he realized that he had forgotten his keeper’s gloves. Flint flying into the horizon with Velebeth Rosier on the back of his broom after winning one million to zero…

“Wood’s losing it,” he heard one of the Weasley twins say after a particularly gruelling practice session. He couldn’t help but agree a little. 

At least they had Harry and his Firebolt, Oliver told himself while doing laps in the dark one week before the match against Ravenclaw. They were going to win this match, and the one after that. His thoughts kept jumping ahead to Slytherin, to Flint and his nasty curved quaffels. 

He simply knew they were the better team. He knew for sure that Harry was the better seeker. Marcus Flint would rue the day he made that slimy little git Malfoy chaser in exchange for a few racing brooms. 

  
  
\---

Harry caught the snitch before Cho Chang, thank Merlin. 

Patty Stimpson congratulated him with a kiss on the cheek, waiting for him outside the changing rooms, face hopeful and flushed. It made Oliver’s guts twist with guilt, but he let her sit on his lap for the duration of the impromptu party in the Gryffindor common room and didn’t turn his face away when she leaned in for a full-on kiss. 

They sat together at breakfast the next morning and exchanged niceties over oatmeal and toast. Patty was actually a riot to be around; she had the funniest way of saying things, was a master of pulling faces and had a genuine interest in quidditch. Oliver had almost forgotten why he’d gone out with her in the first place. She was also bold – bold enough to give him a peck on the corner of his mouth before hurrying outside for her first class with Hagrid and the flobberworms. 

Oliver wasn’t proud of himself when he cast a look towards the Slytherin table and found Marcus Flint staring. The savage satisfaction he felt was almost enough to drown out the guilt. 

“You should be studying, you know,” Percy told him later that day, right after bangers and mash for lunch and some more heavy flirting with Stimpson. “I’ve been revising potions all week long with Flint, and Merlin knows you haven’t –“ 

“You’ve been _ what _?”

And that was how he learned about remedial help and Percy tutoring Flint. It stung like betrayal, for some reason, that he hadn’t known about all the time one of his best mates had been spending with the chap he was hopelessly infatuated with. 

“But – why didn’t you tell me?” He asked Percy for the millionth time while walking to charms. 

“Honestly, Oliver, what is it with you and Flint? You’re busy with quidditch. It hardly seemed to matter, it’s _ part of my duties _ as head boy.” Percy was taxing him with a sharp look above the rim of his horned glasses. 

Oliver just shrugged, but the raise of Percy’s eyebrows made him cave within seconds flat. So maybe he wanted to talk about it. 

“We ran into each other…” 

“Are you _ serious _ –“ 

“It was only one time, Perce!”

“– with Marcus Flint of all people?” 

“I don’t know how it happened, alright –“ 

“Then what’s this thing with Stimpson?” 

“What, can I not keep my options open?” 

“_Honestly_, Oliver,” Percy stopped walking, a look of pure incredulity on his freckled face. “When have _ you _ ever been one to –“ 

“Alright, alright, maybe I was trying to –“ 

“Make Flint jealous? What a shoddy thing to do to Patricia.” 

Oliver hung his head in shame, but he felt lighter than he had in ages. Percy knowing somehow lifted a pressure, this thing with Flint no longer only happening in his head. The rest of the day passed in a flurry and he didn’t chance upon Patty again, which was also a relief. He dreaded having to let her down after making such a spectacle. 

He realized, while later in bed that night, that he’d never once considered actually going out with her again. She was very pretty, she had a great sense of humour and a red and gold school tie to go along with it. They’d had plenty of good talks about anything and everything. The baseline for a romance seemed perfect. 

But a romance required feelings – fluttery excitement, tightness in the stomach, pulsing anger and cold disappointment. All of those things he’d felt for Flint, the utter wanker, while his thoughts on Patty remained friendly at best, indifferent at worst. 

  


\---

The upcoming match against Slytherin had tensions high. Skirmishes broke out in the corridors, though Oliver warned all of his players (especially the twins) from taking part in any petty duelling. Fred and George started walking Harry from class to class to prevent Derrick and Bole springing a hex on him. Angelina got in a confrontation with Terence Higgs that left her with a bloody nose and him with a face full of warts. 

Oliver felt close to jumping out of his skin, like he was going batshit bonkers. He finally snapped two days before the final match, hollering across the great hall during breakfast. Katie had been preyed upon by Malfoy’s lackeys the previous evening and was still in the hospital wing regrowing all of the hair on her person. 

“FLINT!” Oliver bellowed, anger making him lightheaded. The great hall stopped eating to watch while Flint turned towards him lazily, chewing on a piece of buttered toast. “You need to keep your fucking players in check.” 

Flint stood up slowly and Oliver couldn’t resist taking a few steps forward, staring right up into cool grey eyes. Never let it be said that he was afraid. “I swear, if there’s one more fucking incident –“ 

“Then what? You’ll run to McGonagall? She’s watching us right now.” Marcus’ voice sent shivers up and down his spine, but Oliver pushed on, so angry he could barely breathe. How dare Marcus bloody Flint? Did he take Oliver for a complete idiot? 

“You’ll tell them to step the fuck down, Flint. You can knock me off my broom come Friday –“ 

“Oh, trust me, I will.” 

“ – but don’t mess with my players now.” 

“I’m not everyone’s _ keeper_, I can’t help what they do,” Flint said with a grin, and few nasty laughs rang out from where much of the Slytherin team was sitting. 

“Is it because you lot are cowards? Are you just plain scared of playing us, is that it? You know you messed up, Flint, your chaser is _ shit_, all the Nimbuses in the world won’t change that.” Malfoy had gone pink with anger at his end of the table, making to stand up with his two burly friends in tow. 

Oliver stared into Flint’s eyes and didn’t back down. A part of him was hopelessly aroused by the mere proximity, a traitorous part that noticed the angle of Flint’s sharp nose and the furrow between his dark brows, but he squashed it down with a metaphorical heel. Professor McGonagall swept in before any of them could go for their wands, losing both Gryffindor and Slytherin forty points for their behaviour. 

It was well worth it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always post on Sundays :D Let me know your thoughts


	9. NINE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware of the smut.

Marcus stood to the side and watched while Oliver Wood bawled his eyes out, one arm slung around Potter, the other reaching for the quidditch cup. There were Gryffindors everywhere, jumping, chanting, screaming, waving around their gold and scarlet school ties.

“Good game, lads,” he told Higgs and Bletchley, who wore matching sour expression on their faces. The rare compliment didn’t have the intended effect. Bletchley exploded, throwing his broom to the ground: “It’s fucking unfair that Potter got a Firebolt!” 

Marcus shrugged and watched from the corner of his eye as Wood embraced his teammates, one after another, pressing teary kisses on them. Then he was being heaved up by those redheaded twins, still full-on crying while saddled on their shoulders. 

“You know we love you, Oliver,” one of the gingers said with dramatic flair, “but you didn’t have to go that far –“ 

“It’s a leader’s instinct to protect his people!” His twin brother replied while fans continued crowding them. 

“He was going to throttle Flint for us!” 

“How romantic!” 

Marcus turned and left for the changing rooms, ears ringing. Halfway there, he was ambushed by a tiny witch with a rather severe buzz cut who shook his hand firmly and for a very long time. She turned out to be a scout from the Falmouth Falcons, stating to be very interested in his further career options. 

He felt dazed, afterwards, holding on to her card, looking at the Falmouth emblem. In a few months’ time, he would be playing professional quidditch – even if he failed his N.E.W.T.s for a second time, people had taken interest in him on account of his skills. The Magpies had competition now, and for the first time ever, he had  _ options _ . 

“The Falcons, Flint,” Warrington said in disbelief, again and again, while under the showers. “The bloody fucking Falmouth Falcons.” 

That one handshake put things into perspective, made the school quidditch cup seem much, much less important.

  
  
  
\---

With the quidditch season over and Gryffindor crowned, Marcus had no more excuse to dodge his workload. The approaching N.E.W.T.s had become an all-encompassing topic in his classes. People were constantly comparing notes, breaking out into tears, running to the library to get this book or that. 

Remedial help, as humiliating as it still was, had finally caught him up with revising. Marcus now at least had a vague idea of what he should be studying in which subject. And, surprisingly enough, he’d finally managed  _ silencio _ on a crow he’d semi-successfully transfigured from an umbrella. 

There was just one thing that constantly distracted Marcus from his terrifying tower of books: the constant, near painful hard-on he sported for Oliver Wood. 

His mind had gone on a bender ever since Wood had confronted him in the great hall, and it only got worse with time. Four days after the final and his bone-crushing handshake with the Falmouth scout, he dreamed of Wood on his knees, giving head like the champion that he was. The next night he wanked himself raw to thoughts of Wood bended in half, taking cock like nobody’s business. 

Who knew, he thought to himself despairingly while jacking his cock for the fifth night in a row, who fucking knew that getting screamed at in public was such a turn-on? 

He met up with Beth Rosier, but she was too high-strung for sex, going crazy over N.E.W.T.s like the rest of them. They ended up sitting in the common room together, revising for herbology and complaining bitterly in turns. There was a nice camaraderie to it, they both agreed, and put an early end to their arrangement. 

She did blow him for a last time, as an amicable type of thing between friends. 

Marcus thought about it long and hard, but he ended up handing Percy Weasley a slip of parchment at their next appointment. So maybe he really, really wanted to get into Wood’s pants. And maybe he had panicked a little and reacted like a complete tosser after that one time in the cupboard. 

If there was anything Marcus didn’t have a problem with, it was sex. He’d been having it for the last three years, just not with men. That could be changed. And by Salazar, if he had one more dream about Oliver Wood bending over he’d have to hex someone. 

“What is this?” Weasley said in response to his parchment slip. He was looking rather put-out by the extracurricular conversation going on. 

“Could you hand it over to Wood?”

“Merlin,” Weasley sighed, taking off his glasses and wiping them on the hem of his uniform. He looked quite harried without his spectacles to hide behind. “Yes, fine. I’ll hand it over. Can we focus now?” 

  
  
  
\---

And that was how Marcus found himself sneaking out for a nice, long midnight soak in the prefect’s bathroom that very same night. If Wood never showed, he told himself, it would simply be a random bath he took to get the perpetual kink out of his left leg. 

But of course, Oliver Wood came. He was simply dependable that way, though he managed to look rather suspicious, brows drawn, mouth a flat line. Even that could not cover the glow of utter bliss he had been exuding ever since winning the cup: “You’re resorting to parchment slips now? Are we first years sneaking butter beer?” 

“Didn’t want to yell for you across the great hall.” 

“Har har,” Wood said, deadpan, before starting to strip. Marcus sat back and enjoyed the view, heartbeat picking up. Wood had been a lanky kid who filled out during his sixth year, his body all lean, long lines and delicious muscle tone. He had moles and freckles everywhere, the skin on his arms just a tad less pale than the rest of his body. 

“Why did you ask me to come here?” Wood finally said after dunking himself underwater a few times. He was looking rather weary again, standing almost at the other end of the large tub. 

“Why did you come?” Marcus countered, eyes following the dip of a sharp collarbone, the bob of an Adam’s apple. Merlin, he was already getting hard under the foamy bubbles. Wood scowled at him, a flush rising to the top of his cheekbones: “Thanks a bunch, I keep asking myself that as well.” 

“I wanted to –“ 

“I mean, I’ll say that we won fair and square, Flint. We were the better team, in the end, I’ve always said that your beaters are shite, and Malfoy’s subpar, anyways.“ Wood was rambling in that familiar way of his, crossing and uncrossing his arms, pointing accusing fingers this way and that. “I know the Falcons want to scout you, alright, and honestly, you deserve it, because you’re the only person on that team with a smidgen of an idea about quidditch, but  _ my  _ team –“ 

Marcus swam a few laps, ducking under water before resurfacing right in front of Wood. Then, without further ado, he dipped his head down and kissed Wood full on the mouth. To be perfectly honest, he had wanted to ever since the blasted Gryffindor walked through the door. He tasted soapy, a little bitter, salty when their tongues touched.

“Hold on, HOLD ON,” Wood stumbled back, buoyed by the steaming water. He looked red enough to burst, the tips of his ears glowing. “What about – what about the girl you were seeing? Velebeth Rosier?” 

Marcus stared, trying to control his breathing: “I wasn’t seeing her.” 

“But you – you said you were…” 

“I said I was fucking her.” 

“And now what? Now you want to fuck me, all of a sudden? Do you think I’m blind as well as stupid, Flint? You’ve been ignoring me these last few months,  _ avoiding me like dragon pox _ , and –”

Marcus kissed him again, just to shut up the tidal wave of accusations pouring forth. Snogging Wood was a heady feeling; the Gryffindor pushed back, he fidgeted, reached out to run his hands down Marcus’ chest, bit down until it drew blood, licked the roof of his mouth. 

None of the girls he’d been with had acted this way. Making out with them was usually like going through a pleasant routine, something he greatly enjoyed but stayed quite similar save for a few minor details. Gemma Farley had disliked tongue, Calliope Greengrass had hated it when he moved too much. Beth Rosier, bless her, she’d all but mauled him whenever they got to snog in peace and quiet. 

“You’ve drifted off, Flint.”

Marcus hadn’t noticed closing his eyes, but the first thing he saw was Wood’s flushed face when he blinked them open again. They stared at each other for a long second, the tension thick enough to cut with a simple  _ diffindo _ . 

“Ever been with a bloke before, Wood?” Marcus asked, trying his damnest to keep his voice level and dreading the answer the very second the words were spoken. He wouldn’t know how to respond if the answer was –

“Yes, of course,” Wood said matter-of-factly. Marcus stared at him, the tip of their noses almost touching, the heat he hadn’t wanted to identify as jealousy flooding his chest once again. “There’s this hulking lug of a chap I was snogging in the cupboard the other day. I heard he’s a right tosser.” 

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Then Marcus was backing Wood against the edge of the pool, vicious satisfaction tightening his grip on Wood’s waist, thumb pushing in until he was sure a slight bruise was forming. “Is that right? Was he any good, then?” 

“He was okay,” Wood said, breath catching as their cocks slid together. His pupils were blown wide, the light brown of his iris a thin, amber ring. “A bit too soft, if you ask me.” Then Wood was moving even closer, aligning their chests, and licking a stripe along his jaw, the glide of tongue slick and heated.

“I’ll be sure not to repeat his mistakes,” Marcus drawled before crashing their mouths together. He reached down, skimming his knuckles across tight, pink nipples a few times before pinching them in turns. Wood let out a strangled groan, baring his neck. 

“You better not,” he gasped, before letting out a laugh. Oliver Wood always looked best when he was laughing. It changed his face, made it softer, put a crinkle in the straight line of his nose. Marcus stared, suddenly overwhelmed with everything. He dodged the tight feeling in his stomach by initiating another kiss and reaching for Wood’s cock, jacking it in his fist a few times. 

“Ah,  _ Merlin _ ,” Wood sighed, jaw going slack. Marcus watched him closely, moving his fist quickly before slowing into a vice-like grip. Wood jerked against him, eyes half-lidded, unable to relax into the new sensation. “I knew you would be a sadistic prick.” 

“Tell me to stop,” Marcus challenged back, his voice going hoarse for some reason. Wood responded by holding on to his shoulders, a moan escaping his lips, eyes slipping shut. Then he was surging upright, all of a sudden, breaking Marcus’ hold on his cock and reversing their positions with the twist of an arm. 

“How about  _ you _ ask me to stop,” he declared triumphantly before reaching down to grab a hold of Marcus’ balls. “Hop up for me, will you, Flint?” 

Marcus, at a complete loss of words, obliged. His heart was beating out a fast staccato against the cage of his ribs as he settled between the diamond-studded golden tabs. Looking up, he noticed that all the mermaids on the stained-glass window had disappeared to Merlin knew where. 

“Eyes over here,” Wood said, and Marcus’ attention snapped back to the Gryffindor. There was a strange pleasure in letting someone else make the calls. He’d had bossy girls in his bed before, but in the end, the dynamics were always skewered towards him initiating, touching or even spanking. Wood looked at him with his brows raised, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You’re unfocussed, huh?” 

“Are you going to suck my cock or not?”

“Oh, so we’re taking requests now?” 

“What else were you going to do down there?” 

“Be careful, don’t know if Madam Pomfrey can patch up  _ broken dicks _ , Flint!” 

Marcus grabbed the back of Wood’s head, fingers threading through wet hair, and forced him down. It would’ve been a nasty move with anyone else, but Wood was full-on grinning before parting his lips to swallow Marcus’ cock down in one go. The tight, slick heat almost had him coming at once. 

Wood, ambitious as he was, gagged slightly while coming up for air, eyes victorious, before attempting some more deep-throating that had Marcus’ whole body tensing with bone-wrenching pleasure. He chanced a brief downward glance, catching the focussed expression on Wood’s face, lips stretched taut around the base of his cock, eyes half-lidded and tearing with the strain. Marcus would never admit it, not even when threatened with an unforgivable, but he came within a matter of seconds, the earth-shattering orgasm knocking him flat on his back. 

“Don’t you dare fall asleep now, Flint!” Wood was panting for breath, wiping at his mouth and crawling out the tub all at once. He was also grinning like the gorgeous lunatic that he was: “It’s my turn!” 

  
  



	10. TEN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More smut, because - why not? :D

Oliver wrote his mum exactly two times in the month leading up to his N.E.W.T.s. He told her about the unimaginable amount of time he spent studying, the way his fellow seventh years had gone smarmy with anxiety, that he missed playing quidditch and was contemplating jumping out a window if he ever saw another half-transformed toad. 

What he absolutely left out was the indecent amount of time he was spending shagging the stuffing out of Marcus Flint. 

For the first time in his life, quidditch had to share its formerly undisputed position at the forefront of his thoughts. Whenever he wasn’t studying and occupying his brain with ingredients for the draught of the living dead, the proper care for young mandrakes or the locomotion charm, he was thinking about Flint. Though Flint and quidditch were barely ever separable. 

The sheer presence the Slytherin had taken up in his head should’ve been worrying, yet Oliver couldn’t bring himself to care. Percy told him, repeatedly, that he was being disgustingly happy for someone studying for his N.E.W.T.s and supposedly suffering through revising ten hours a day. And damn it, he was. So fucking happy he could’ve screamed it from the top of the astronomy tower. 

“You know he has a reputation, don’t you?” Percy was speaking under his breath, cleaning his spectacles with the tip of his wand while Oliver shovelled scrambled eggs into his mouth at the Gryffindor table. 

“What’dya mean?” 

“Eat with your mouth _ closed_, Wood. What I mean is that Flint’s known for… for fucking around.” 

“Whoa, heavy language there, Perce,” Oliver said, eyes immediately darting to where Flint was sitting with Warrington, sipping on pumpkin juice, listening to his friend rant. His hair looked uncombed, tousled in two different directions, the collar of his uniform sitting askew. Then, as if sensing the stare, Flint turned around and shot him a quick look, the corner of his mouth lifting up just so. 

“This is disgraceful to witness,” Percy said out loud, putting his spectacles back on. Oliver sat upright, heat shooting down his spine like a lightning bolt. He cleared his throat before turning back to his breakfast. “Even if he does have a reputation, what does it matter?” 

“You act like a lovesick fool, that’s why it matters,” Percy hissed before hiding his nose behind _ The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7_, steadfastly ignoring Oliver for the rest of the morning. 

He thought about it in the boy’s loo during lunch hour, staring at his own reflection, gauging whether or not he did look lovesick. Flint had brought him off _ three times _ the night before last, wringing every last spasm out of him with large, calloused hands. The echo of pleasure-pain still shot through his body whenever he reached down and pinched himself just right. 

“Do up that tie properly!” the mirror commanded him in a squeaky voice. “Comb your hair, laddie.” 

Oliver heaved out a great big sigh and obeyed. 

Unsurprisingly, Patricia Stimpson moved all the way down the Gryffindor table to sit with him once he finally decided to stop thinking and go for a quick lunch. She had been remarkably patient with his lack of reaction following Gryffindor’s quidditch victory. Oliver kept excusing himself with his upcoming N.E.W.T.s, throwing her apologetic smiles and allowing heedless small talk in the corridors between classes. 

“How’s revising coming along?” Patty shot him a warm grin, casting a heating charm on her soup absentmindedly. 

“Fine, just fine, I feel as if my head’s ready to burst, but that’s the way it’s supposed to be, by all accounts,” Oliver told her while throwing glances towards the Slytherin table. Flint hadn’t appeared for lunch yet, he noticed, eyes skimming over rows and rows of pupils. Vaguely, he registered that Patty had laughed and said something in return. 

“Sorry, you were saying…?” Oliver swallowed his sausage in two bites, making to turn towards her before catching Flint’s tall form from across the great hall. He was sitting down at the far end of the Slytherin table, book in hand, frowning deeply while serving himself a heap of roast potatoes. Someone, maybe Bletchley, said something to him that provoked a rare smile, lopsided and brief. 

“Hullo, earth to Oliver!” 

“Earth?” Oliver crossed and uncrossed his legs under the table. An intense need to dash over and cover that half-smile with his lips made his stomach tighten. Maybe he’d kiss a trail down Flint’s rigid jaw and suck a mark on his exposed collarbone, bite down for good measure. Flint was really into biting. 

“It’s a muggle turn of phrase… Space travel, and all that.” 

Oliver forced himself to return his attention to Patty, who was looking rather bemused. He smiled at her in an effort to project a pleasant sort of interest, but was immediately distracted again when a seventh-year Slytherin approached Flint and plucked the book from his hands. Velebeth Rosier, curls a glossy tumble on the top of her head, leaned in close to mutter something or other before reaching to scratch at the nape of Flint’s neck. It was a private gesture in a very public space; a lazy, careless sort of behaviour that spoke volumes of shared intimacy. 

Oliver pushed his plate away, hunger suddenly gone out the tall windows of the great hall. The food he’d swallowed was congealing in an icy clump while he attempted to steadfastly ignore Flint and Rosier with their heads bent together.   
  


\---

“You’re right,” he said out of nowhere during a study session in the library later in the evening. The surrounding tables were largely deserted, save for Harry’s friend Hermione Granger, who was reading furiously in a corner. Percy looked up from his parchment roll, momentarily disgruntled at being disturbed, before catching Oliver’s look. 

“I told you so,” he said, voice drier than sand. Oliver could feel himself deflating, the knots in his stomach tightening. So maybe he was a lovesick fool, and a very oblivious one to boot. Flint had never promised anything, nor had he specifically spoken of _ not _ fucking Velebeth Rosier. It had simply been an inconceivable notion to Oliver that this _ thing _ between them, so charged and magnetic, could be just one of many flings. 

“Oliver, honestly,” Percy took off his spectacles, blue eyes squinting. The rustle of turning pages from Granger’s corner covered his low voice. “You must know loads of people fancy you. Even blokes. Yes, don’t give me that look. You’re hugely popular.” 

Oliver thumped his face against the table, hiding an embarrassed grimace. He felt such a complete, utter fool. As if a few romps were somehow promises for anything, as if those stolen moments at night were special. As if a few sloppy blowjobs were ever going to measure up. 

“Frankly, he’s not worth your time.” Percy placed a rather awkward hand on his back, something he rarely ever did, being notorious for loathing unnecessary bodily contact. “And now we should focus if we don’t want to fail our N.E.W.T.s like _ somebody _ did.” 

Oliver barked a laugh before making an admonishing sound: “Head boys shouldn’t be gossips, Mr. Weasley.” 

“Oh, come off it,” Percy huffed out before summoning a large tome from the endless piles that were scattered around them. Oliver reached out and ruffled Percy’s meticulous auburn coif, which induced a bout of indignant squawking. They had been this way ever since the sorting hat placed them into Gryffindor as head-strong, snot-nosed first years. 

Oliver caught the heavy book sailing their way and they both sneezed from the small dust cloud. Percy rubbed at his upturned nose, elbowing him aside to pour over his star chart once again. A sudden well of affection made Oliver lean in for a sideways hug: “Thanks, Perce.” 

He went back to revising the principles of arithmancy after Percy shrugged his arm off. The draining pull in his abdomen had subsided, leaving in its wake a deep ache. Maybe Percy was right, after all. He usually tended to be, the pretentious git. Becoming this invested had been beyond foolish. Perhaps he needed only to go – 

“Wood.” 

Both Oliver and Percy jolted in their seats. Marcus Flint was leaning against a bookshelf with his arms crossed. He looked rather defensive, the rigid lines of his body exuding a type of aggression that screamed low-key murder. Oliver stared at him, appalled. By the looks of it Flint had been out flying, flecks of grass clinging to the side of his sweat-slick neck. He looked good enough to _ eat _. 

“Can I have a word with you?”

“What are you doing –“ 

“Oh, for _Merlin’s_ _sake_!” 

They all spoke at once, and rather loudly. Hermione Granger glanced up from her book, annoyance radiating off her in waves. Percy, matching her in look and posture, shut his heavy tome with an audible flap: “You’d better do this _ somewhere else _, Oliver –” 

He had barely spoken his part when Madam Pince was already descending on them all, face pinched at the ruckus they were causing. Oliver stood up in a hurry, gathering his things haphazardly. His heartbeat had gone out of control. Flint was still standing there with his arms crossed, scowling at everyone. 

“Let’s go, then,” Oliver said to him, and before he could better control his impulses, he grabbed Flint’s arm and tugged him away from the three disapproving stares. They made it all the way up to the third floor before attacking each other with kisses; vicious snogging was always Flint’s preferred method of greeting these days. And by Merlin, was it glorious – spit-swapping, teeth-clacking, tongue-biting, lip-bruisingly glorious. 

“Can’t stay here,” Oliver managed to say before Flint was licking into his mouth, a hand fisted in his hair, the other one already reaching down to undo the buttons of his robes. “Not in the bloody corridor, Flint!”

“Fine, _ alohomora_!” 

The door nearest to them sprang open and they wasted no time rushing in. It was the charms classroom, Oliver registered in the back of his mind. The fourth years must have been practicing summoning, as there was a gigantic pile of pillows next to the teacher’s desk. Flint caught on to his train of thoughts, and within moments they were already tumbling over each other, sinking into the soft mountain of down, feathers flying every which way. 

Flint finished unbuttoning his shirt, mouth latching onto a nipple immediately. Oliver had enough mind to cast a quick privacy charm at the door before moaning out loud. “Merlin, right there, _ ow_!” 

Flint had pinched the skin over his ribs, fingers twisting cruelly to make it smart all the more. Oliver let out a helpless moan and ground his hips upwards for friction. It was a disgrace, truly it was, how easily Marcus Flint could reduce him to a quivering mess. 

A hysteric sound escaped him at that thought. Had he not just decided to distance himself, to wisely save himself the inevitable trouble? Suddenly, it was all too much. The pleasure-pain, the smell of grass and broom polish, the pang in his chest when he thought of Velebeth Rosier…

“Stop!” 

Flint froze. Then, after ages in which neither of them let out the tiniest sound, he moved off slowly. Oliver was at a loss of words, feeling beyond foolish once again. What in Godric’s name was he supposed to say now? _ I’ve fallen in love with you, even though we have barely ever held a proper conversation_. Or, even better: _ Stop sleeping with other people_. 

Fuck, he was in love with Flint. 

The thought struck him like a fist in the stomach, leaving him reeling. Oliver sat there, half-reclining against the pillow mound with his shirt open, and felt at an utter loss. Flint was crouching at an arm’s length with an unreadable expression on his long, angular face, watching on while Oliver worked himself into a veritable panic attack. 

“Is it because of Weasley?” 

Oliver blinked a few times. Flint had spoken quietly, his voice low and rough. “What? Percy?” he shook his head a few times, before barking a laugh: “No, why would it be?” 

Flint gave a half-shrug, eyes downcast: “He doesn’t like me much, is all.” 

“I, no. Of course, it’s not because of Percy, I mean, he has loads of opinions on what I do in my spare time, but – I mean,” Oliver took a deep breath to stop himself from rambling some more. “ – _areyoustillsleepingwithrosier _ –“ 

“What? Fucking hell, Wood, speak up!” 

“Are you – I wanted to ask if you were still seeing Beth Rosier.” 

Flint squinted at him, looking perplexed, crooked nose scrunched up in a way that made it appear even more lopsided. Oliver could scarcely believe how handsome someone could be with such a visible facial impairment. 

“No…” Flint enunciated slowly, crawling back on top of Oliver like the pushy bastard that he was. “I was never seeing her to begin with, and no, I’m _ not _ sleeping with her anymore. It’d be pretty fucking difficult fitting the both of you in my schedule.” 

“Oh,” Oliver said, feeling an involuntary smile stretch his lips. By the feel of it, some of his guts were untwisting themselves from the double knots they’d formed. “Oh, I mean, that’s… that’s understandable, with, with all the revising and our N.E.W.T.s –“ 

Flint silenced him with a kiss, and before long they were grinding against each other again, erections painfully hard and leaking pre-come all over the place. “Don’t. Move,” Flint instructed, big hand working to open the fly of his trousers. There was something mischievous to the angle of his mouth, a smug little upturn. Oliver jolted and let out an embarrassingly high mewl when sharp teeth nipped at his hip bone while practiced fingers carried on pinching at his stomach with enough strength to bruise. 

“Fucking – _ Merlin_,” Oliver groaned out loud while Flint nosed his way down to his cock, licking a hot stripe from root to tip. The nasty little pinches moved from his stomach to his thighs. Desperate, choked off moans filled the air as Flint swallowed him down, bobbing his head a few times while Oliver writhed. 

How the Slytherin found the coordination to suck him into oblivion and never cease the pinching was beyond Oliver’s understanding. The zings of pain and the tightening suction around his cock were enough to make him arch off the pillows, hands grabbing for purchase randomly. 

“I’m going to come,” he told Flint faintly in between all the groaning, before biting his own tongue to keep the rest from tumbling out as well. What better way to kill the mood than with some unsolicited love declarations? 

Flint made a humming sound, swallowing around Oliver’s erection a few times. It was almost enough to make him go berserk, yet the git wasn’t done yet. Flint tweaked his merry way down the inside of his thighs, dug nails into flesh with way too much vigour before slipping his hand down and pinching the skin on the inseam of Oliver’s arse with all his might. 

The brief but blinding pain had barely subsided before Oliver was already coming with his head thrown back dramatically, pleasure making his limbs go numb. He was moaning louder than Myrtle ever could, breath coming raggedly while Flint sucked him through the crests and peaks of it, swallowing all the while. He didn’t recall going limp or closing his eyes, wrung out with the mindless pleasure. Not even being turned onto his belly much bothered him and it took a few seconds until he realized Flint had murmured a lubrication spell. 

“Oh, Merlin, wait –“ his bruised thighs were now sloppy with slick, a rather strange feeling. “Flint? I’m not… I don’t think I –“ 

“Just close your damn legs and shut up,” Flint barked before pushing his thighs together. 

“Are you – are you seriously fucking my thighs now? Honestly? Are you pretending there’s a cunt down there?” Oliver pushed against the bulk of Flint’s shoulders pressing him down. It was like trying to move a thrice-cursed boulder with a sticking spell on top. 

“Stop talking, you’re ruining my make-pretend,” Flint said, voice thick with sarcasm before successfully shoving his cock into the gap between Oliver’s slick thighs. He sounded rather pleased, as well as quite breathless. So Oliver kept on with his spiel, feeling the heat of a flush spread down his chest. Talking to Flint was so bloody easy as long as bodily fluids were being exchanged and you were half-drunk on pleasure. 

“Does that feel any good, tight enough for you, yeah? How would you fancy fucking me for real, or would that ruin the illusion?” 

“I was - literally - just sucking your cock,” Flint grunted, grip on his hips tightening to the point of discomfort. But that was exactly what got Oliver off – miraculously, he was once again hard after the first hellish orgasm. Flint was sweat-slick and broad against his back, hotter than any furnace had a right to be. Without the slightest warning he tensed, spilling all over the back of Oliver’s thighs, his arse and Flitwick’s pillow mound. 

“Oof!” 

Oliver collapsed with Flint on top of him, the breath pressed from his lungs while his new erection was pressed into the sticky mess they had made. 

“Bloody Merlin,” Flint said out of nowhere, sounding way too calm and collected for someone who’d just done some mind-blowing rutting. Then he flipped Oliver over and jacked him to a second orgasm and right into its subsequent blackout. 

  
  



	11. ELEVEN.

There was one sentence that pushed Marcus through the horrid week of N.E.W.T.s. It kept popping up whenever he felt aggravated enough to chuck his quill and charmed parchment out the window, or whenever he thought his head might explode from the sheer amount of pressure. 

“ _ Frankly, he’s not worth your time _ .” 

It kept repeating in the back of his head while he laboured his way through recounting all the giant wars, goblin rebellions as well as a detailed analysis on the international statute of secrecy and its implementation. Looking up and seeing the back of Oliver Wood’s head didn’t help one bit. It only served to make him angrier, though it arguably drove his motivation to formerly unknown heights. 

He could picture it before his mind’s eye. Percy Weasley, the pompous git with his haughty, nasal voice, going: “ _ You know loads of people fancy you, right? He’s not worth your time. He failed his N.E.W.T.s like a complete idiot. He’s not worth your time _ .” 

Marcus clawed his way through transfiguration theory, he fought through every question in advanced charms with tooth and nail. He focussed so hard during potions that he thought his teeth might be ground to dust by the time the bloody  _ Amortentia _ was done brewing. 

Unlike the first time he’d taken his N.E.W.T.s, he was on constant alert. He felt uncharacteristically jumpy, tugging out books to look up random things during meals and in the middle of the night. He kept close to Rosier and Warrington, both of whom were suffering immensely under test anxiety, and listened to their moaning. It gave him a petty sense of vindication to know everyone else was suffering, too. 

“ _ Buggering _ fuck!” Rosier said with a heartfelt groan on the eve of their last exam day. She leaned against Marcus’ side, pushing away her nearly untouched plate. “Warrington, what will  _ your _ father do to you if you fail herbology tomorrow?” 

Warrington made a face and hid behind some book or other, stuffing his mouth with buttered peas. Marcus closed his eyes briefly, Percy Weasley's thrice-damned words mingling with instructions on the rearing of the fanged geranium. If this wasn’t the brink of insanity, he didn’t know what was. 

“ _ My _ father,” Rosier went on whining, “will punish me by inviting someone absolutely hideous to tea. Maybe some Bulstrode.” 

Having tea was a well-used euphemism for the start of a pure-blood courting ritual. Marcus had had his share of tea with the Greengrasses the past summer. Actually, thank Salazar he failed his N.E.W.T.s the first time around. 

“Tell me about the venomous tentacula, then,” he told Rosier, nudging her with an elbow. She let out another groan, eyes scrunched up with effort: “Nothing, Flint. I can’t tell you a damned thing about the blasted fucking tentacula. It’s venomous, there you go.” 

“Weren’t you revising this just yesterday?” Anwar Shafiq said from across the table. He was sporting a rather ungainly bump on his forehead from wrestling the rabbit during their practical transfiguration exam and losing disgracefully.

“Shut up,” Rosier hissed, something unkind already at the tip of her tongue. The two of them had never gotten along very well despite knowing each other for most of their lives. Marcus left them to their bickering, taking half-hearted bites of his pie. Glancing up, he saw Wood looking his way from the Gryffindor table. He, too, was holding a book in one hand and a loaded fork in the other. 

“ _ Frankly, he’s not worth your time _ .” 

For some reason rather beyond Marcus’ understanding, it was of paramount importance that Mr. Head-Boy-Weasley was proven wrong. He had never been particularly interested or talented in any part of the curriculum Hogwarts had to offer, save Madam Hooch’s flying lessons. Everyone knew he could give less of a kneazel’s shite where vanishing things went ( _ into non-being, meaning everything _ , Weasley's obnoxious voice droned in his head). And he’d never given a rat’s arse what Gryffindors thought of him as long as he beat them on the quidditch pitch. Yet now…

He’d watched Wood during their practical examinations. Unlike Shafiq, he’d successfully transfigured his rabbit into a decorative jewellery box, and though it still had whiskers upon close inspection, it had been an impressive enough feat to warrant some words of congratulations from the examiner. Marcus’ box ended up sporting a rather conspicuous fur lid, though at least it didn’t move like Cyrus Fawley’s did when presented with a carrot. 

“ _ Frankly, he’s not worth your time _ .” 

Weasley was sitting next to Wood, once again, lips moving frantically, spectacles slipping down his nose while he went through a long parchment roll. The wave of hostility and anger that rose inside Marcus at the mere sight almost felt unwarranted. Shoving Weasley face first into his mashed potatoes sounded like a brilliant idea. Throwing the fifty-inch parchment roll into a fire, maybe. Breaking that long nose with a few well-placed punches was also a tempting option. 

Then, of course, Wood looked up and caught his glare. They stared each other down for a few moments before the Gryffindor relented and broke out into a smile. Something hot stirred inside Marcus’ guts. It’d been five days since they last met up, and even then, it had been a rushed affair with just the buckles of their belts undone. Marcus let the grin he was suppressing surface, though only slightly, before nodding towards the portal of the great hall. 

Wood bit his lip and threw a worried glance at Weasley before inclining his head and getting up from the Gryffindor table, picking up his bag of books and exchanging a few words with the girl that was always hanging around him during meals. Marcus made himself wait until the count of fifty-seven before tossing a quick “See you, wankers” at his mates and making a dash for the door. 

  
  
\---  
  


“Don’t you have studying to do?” 

“Don’t you want to get your cock wet?” 

“Oh please,” Wood snorted while they slipped into an empty classroom. He turned and lit the candles with a flick of his wand before tugging something from the pocket of his trousers. “You have no fucking idea.” 

The thing from his pocket turned out to be a blanket shrunken to the size of a handkerchief. “ _ Engorgio _ ,” Wood murmured under his breath and it dropped to the floor thick, woollen and scarlet. “Yes, I’ve come prepared,” he told Marcus when he sensed the bewildered stare. “There’s no way I’m doing it on the bare floor again, Flint. Now strip!” 

Oliver Wood on a mission was always a sight to behold. Marcus didn’t argue and did as he was told – strangely enough, he could always sense if Wood felt like letting go (namely, letting Marcus pinch him all over until he was a shaking mess) or taking charge. He was pushed back onto the blanket with his trousers half off his legs, Wood immediately crawling over him. 

“I have bloody marvellous news, Flint – guess!” 

Marcus looked up at him, eyebrows raised: “Tofty gave you an O in transfiguration?” 

Wood rolled his eyes: “No, it’s way more than that, you tosser!” He waited for a second before ruining his own suspense, bursting out: “I’ve got trials with Puddlemere and Portree! And my uncle told me Wigtown might be interested, as well! Can you fucking believe it?”

Marcus waited a beat for Wood to calm down before saying the first thing that came to mind: “Of course I fucking can. You’re an alright player, aren’t you?” 

That was the understatement of the school year. Wood was by far one of the best players Marcus had ever faced down, superseded only by Potter on his Firebolt and Charlie Weasley, against whom he’d played all of two matches during his second year. Wood, however, seemed to be capable of hearing beyond his wording, flushing pink in the flickering candle light and beaming all the brighter. 

“How anyone can give a buggering fuck about the moons of venus…” he mused while freeing Marcus from his uniform trousers. 

“Or harvesting Snargaluff pods,” Marcus snorted while shrugging out of his shirt. 

“Or bloody Chinese chomping cabbages!” Wood said, breaking out into full-out chuckles.

“Self-fertilizing shrubs,” Marcus added, just to say something. He didn’t remember Wood ever being this carefree… this  _ happy  _ around him. It was disconcerting, and it certainly went above and beyond what they usually did together – that is to say: bicker, throw insults, fly and exchange blowjobs. 

“I wouldn’t even know which team I’d prefer, it’d be a dream to play for any of them. It’d be an honour just to  _ train _ with them, Merlin. Did you know that Portree’s Meaghan McCormack  _ handpicked _ all the candidates?  _ She signed the letter I received today _ ! My Uncle Maxwell told me they might be scouting this kid genius from Malawi as a beater –”

The next time Marcus thought to look out the window, the moon had already risen high. They had spent the past few hours reclining on Wood’s blanket in their underwear, arguing about quidditch and the upcoming world cup. They had vastly different opinions when it came to tactics and formations, and for the first time ever, Marcus found someone who was just as eager to hash everything out, play by play. Every made-up situation had to be discussed from a thousand different vantage points, fantasy teams reassembled half a hundred times. 

In between bickering over Viktor Krum and the Irish chasers, Wood would remember that they were supposed to be hooking up, snogging him silly until he thought of some new argument that needed to be explained then and there in extreme detail. Marcus knew he should have found it weird, this state of near-cuddling, making out and talking quidditch. It was, to be perfectly honest, almost date-like. 

Some part of him immediately blanched at the thought. Another part found it to be really bloody enjoyable, date or no. Of course, he’d always known that Wood was a complete nutter for quidditch – it just turned out that they were well-matched in their insanity. 

“Buggering boggart,” Wood exclaimed _ ,  _ interrupting his own musings on referee candidates for the quarter-finals. “It’s half past one already. We still have exams tomorrow!” 

“Like you’d fail,” Marcus scoffed, putting his shirt back on and stuffing his tie into an inner pocket of his robes. Wood taxed him with an irritated look before halting his movements with a hand on his chest: “You won’t fail, either, Marcus. Professor Tofty actually thought your rabbit box was brilliant. He had a great laugh, I reckon.” 

A few seconds passed in which both of them seemed to realize what had just happened. Wood had called him by his first name – something no one besides Marcus’ mother ever did, if you didn’t count Zippy. He had always been ‘Flint’, just ‘Flint’. It was common among Slytherins to address each other by last names; it preserved a sort of casual distance and made certain that scions of prodigious pureblood families didn’t go unnoticed. 

Wood cleared his throat, eyes cast downwards. He looked stiff all of a sudden, mouth a pinched line. It made something itch inside Marcus’ chest, though it wasn’t exactly the familiar itch to punch something out. He moved a bit towards the door, putting a few steps worth of distance between them. 

Wood made to speak, hands fisted at his sides, but was interrupted by a loud, cackling noise. Peeves, the poltergeist, had flown into the classroom backwards while juggling several plates. He dropped all of them onto the teacher’s desk, where they clattered and broke in an eardrum-shattering commotion. 

“Looky, looky, WHO DO WE HAVE HERE? It’s our quidditch-widditch-woodsy-Wood. AAAAND A TROLL FROM THE DUNGEONS! HELP! A TROLL FROM THE DUNGEONS!” 

Marcus rolled his eyes at the antics, casting silencing spells at the doors and windows before pointing his wand at Peeves. “Nice,” Wood commented when the poltergeist gripped his throat with a dramatic gesture and continued screaming, though no sound came about. “You know nobody thinks that anymore, right?” 

“The troll thing?” Marcus shrugged, averting his eyes, suddenly feeling awkward. It had bothered him before, to the point of aggression. He vaguely remembered some wall-shoving happening over cheeky comments made within his ear-shot. Uncomfortably enough, Percy Weasley’s haughty voice slipped back into his thoughts. “I don’t give a shite,” he bit out through gritted teeth. 

Wood looked like he wanted to say something more, but part of Marcus was glad the strange tension between them had been dissolved. The serious look in Wood’s eyes placed an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Let’s go before Filch comes looking.” 

Peeves, meanwhile, was bouncing against tables, pointing accusing fingers at Marcus and Wood, still utterly soundless. Then he floated to the blackboard and started chucking chalk against its surface. Marcus didn’t wait for Wood’s reply. He turned on his heels, hurrying out the door and taking a short cut behind the portrait of Cyril the Cynic. 

It wasn’t until he reached the dungeons that he felt like he could breathe again. 

  
  



	12. TWELVE.

The two weeks following the end of all exams were complete mayhem, at least for the seventh year Gryffindors. All semblance of an orderly schedule was abandoned, with large quantities of smuggled butter beer and a few cleverly transformed bottles of Ogden’s old firewhiskey making their rounds in the dormitories at all hours of the day. 

Oliver, who had by now a total of five quidditch teams reach out to him, kept his drinking to a minimum and enforced an individual training schedule that would’ve made his old team break out into tears of despair. The only other one who kept himself from the general clamour was Percy, who had started writing application letters to various ministry departments the day after their final exam. 

What also ensued from the post-N.E.W.T.s high was an indecent amount of shagging. Oliver walked in on Andrew Warbeck and various girls on four different occasions, going at it with the curtains of his bed wide open. He also saw Jim Wenlock on his knees in front of a sixth year Hufflepuff in the showers, making truly disturbing gurgling noises. Even Penelope Clearwater was caught exiting an empty classroom with her hat askew. 

The general debauchery wouldn’t have bothered him so much if it weren’t for Marcus bloody Flint. The Slytherin had successfully avoided him for two days straight after their not-quite-hook-up, looking the other way whenever they ran into each other on the quidditch pitch, giving half-hearted grunts instead of greetings. 

Oliver cycled through a cartwheel of emotions before settling on righteous anger. So maybe he’d done the unimaginable and called Flint by his given name. If only the blasted git had the mind to calm the fuck down, Oliver would’ve told him in full disclosure how it was only meant as a friendly type of thing. 

“It’s called self-denial,” Percy told him on the third day of his wallowing, filling out twelve different parchment forms for the Department of International Magical Cooperation. “You should tell him straight-on how you feel, that’ll give you a clean break at least.”

Instead of heeding Percy’s sound advice, Oliver decided on the very opposite. Even if communicating with the utter pillock was a mission and a half, there was no denying that their bodies fitted together like two parts of a whole. The sex they’d had was always good enough to cause literal blackouts. 

A rather desperate part inside him recognized the last fourteen days of his school career for exactly what they were: the end of an era. Outside of Hogwarts, professional quidditch was awaiting both him and Flint, and there’s was literally no guarantee as to what would become of their arrangement. It was perhaps his last chance to get into Flint’s trousers, and by Merlin’s beard, Oliver wasn’t one to let things pass him by. 

His own pesky feelings, meanwhile, could remain safely tucked away and out of sight for everyone, including himself. 

  
  


\---

  
  


The showers were being wonky again, the water going hot, cold and bright purple in turns. Oliver leaned back, the tiled wall cool against his spine, before promptly dropping his wand. Cursing, he retrieved it, steadying himself against the wooden divider. 

In his mind’s eye, Flint was there with him, tall and broad and warm, cursing at the shower head. In this little fantasy, he allowed himself to be called Marcus, and they were – something. Fucking, going out to quidditch matches together, sleeping in the same bed. It was all very vague, the imagery foggy, lacking detail. Then his mind switched to Flint from the other night, half naked on the blanket with his arms crossed and scowl in place, refusing to concede an absolutely valid point Oliver had been making about Ireland’s seekers. 

Opening his eyes again and making a face at the lilac suds going down the drain, Oliver conjured some slick straight onto his right hand. He placed his wand onto the soap shelf and braced himself against the wall, breath coming in shudders. He had been painfully hard for a while now, but beating off and going complacent and sleepy would have been counterproductive to his plans. 

The truth of the matter was: he had been fantasizing about taking it up the arse ever since Flint fucked his thighs and came all over his backside on top of Flitwick’s pillow pile. 

Oliver had tried slipping himself a finger or two while in bed, but the regular disturbances had made him tense up to the point of discomfort. He’d succeeded just once, while in the shower, until finding that someone had been sick all over the floor in the next stall. Which, unsurprisingly, brought him back to the quidditch pitch – and straight into its blessedly empty (if slightly wonky) adjoining showers. 

He pressed the first finger inside, hissing slightly at the burn. It was maddening, the way the pleasure hinted at being there before giving over into an ache. But Oliver wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing – he added two more at once, the stretch making his eyes tear. He also  _ liked  _ the pain, loved the sting of it, the way it made his arousal sharper, more palpable. 

His cock jerked with interest at the new sensation, but Oliver grit his teeth and ignored the impulse to simply tug himself off and be done. He scissored his fingers tentatively, feeling around – it was mostly a tight, slippery affair, the wrist of his right hand aching with the awkward angle of it all. Then, without the smallest inkling of a warning, he grazed past a spot that sent him slipping backwards onto his haunches. 

“Bloody Merlin,” he heard himself saying out loud before coming so hard that his vision went white.

  
  


\---

  
  


Oliver did shots with Jeremiah Larch and a few of his mates from the Gobstone Club before making his way down to the dungeons. It had taken him a couple hundred laps on the quidditch pitch and a few more wanking sessions to gather his wits and courage, and Jeremiah with his bottle of dragon barrel brandy had been a welcome distraction. He felt intense amounts of guilt over ruining his own form so close to try-outs, but that went away too after his fifth shot. 

“Ey, where you off to, Oliver, mate?” Jeremiah, who famously couldn’t hold his alcohol, was already draped across the carpet when he finally made himself stand up, jittery with nerves. 

“Late night flying, have to get my miles in before Puddlemere next month.” 

“You’re mental. I’ve always said so - completely mental!” 

Oliver gave out a round of affectionate, tipsy hugs before making his way through the portrait hole, feeling hot under his collar and more than a little drunk. He walked all the way down to the entrance hall, encountering only a rather jovial Nearly Headless Nick who greeted him with a tip of his ghostly hat. He went through the door to the right of the marble staircase, remembering Slytherins walking in and out of it before and after meals. 

The steep stairs that followed put a damper on his determination; he had never been to this part of the castle, and the total absence of any students roaming about seemed a little alarming. It would be rather unfortunate if he missed his tryouts due to getting absolutely lost in the Hogwarts dungeons. His tipsy descent deep into the bowels of the castle was promptly interrupted when someone cleared their throat behind him. Oliver missed a few steps, tipping forwards dangerously before catching himself on the cool stone walls. 

“Oliver Wood?” 

It was Velebeth Rosier. She was in a spotted nightgown, holding on to a lit candle with a dainty hand, a look of utter derision on her face. Oliver cursed his luck first before cursing himself for getting smashed. So much for liquid courage. 

“Hi, Rosier. Er, I’m looking for Flint. Marcus Flint.” Oliver winced inwardly, keeping himself a good few steps away from her sneer. She cast him a look dripping with contempt before throwing back her hair in a dramatic gesture and descending the last few steps with a poise only the sober possessed. 

“Uh,” Oliver said, suddenly unsure whether pushing away from the stabilizing hold of the slimy stone wall was a good idea. 

“Wait there,” Rosier instructed before taking a left turn and disappearing from view. Oliver stood in the near-darkness, feeling like a complete dimwit. He briefly thought about going back up the stairs and drowning himself in the showers, or maybe punishing himself with a thousand laps. He wouldn’t put it past Beth Rosier to just leave him standing around like the utter cretin that he obviously was. He jerked up when loud voices rang out, echoing against the stone walls.

“I can’t believe you! Wood, of all people?” 

“Scream a little louder, will you?” 

“Oh, like I wasn’t discrete. I could’ve told the whole common room back there -” 

“Shut the fuck up, Rosier.” 

“Oh, fine, do whatever - there he is. Absolutely sloshed.” 

And around the corner came Flint with Rosier in tow, arguing openly, both looking rather cross. They stopped in front of him and fell silent. Oliver chose that moment to slide down the wall, taking a hard, cold seat on the last stair. The flame of Rosier’s candle was flickering, and he went cross-eyed looking at it, feeling dizzy all of sudden. 

“Oh for Salazar’s sake…” Rosier sighed out loud, pushing the candle into Flint’s giant paw. She threw Oliver one last look of open disgust before turning on her heels and walking away with brisk steps. 

“I did not - mean for that to happen. I thought I might find you down here, but in hindsight… I mean, I suppose you’re right and my plan was pretty shite, all things considered.” Oliver heard himself ramble, unable to hold Flint’s stare. He quickly snapped his mouth shut when he was hauled upwards, stumbling along with Flint holding on to his arm. 

“Well, she sure hates me,” he said conversationally once the Slytherin had shoved the both of them past a door after taking countless turns through dank, torch-lit corridors. 

“That’s just how her face looks,” Flint deadpanned. 

Oliver broke out into laughter, tipping backwards and falling onto a rather spacious, worn chaise lounge. He could barely calm himself down, hiccuping his way through new bouts of hysterical giggles. Flint raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him before pointing his wand at the dead fireplace, setting a fire to roaring. The low-ceilinged chamber was suddenly dipped in warm orange hues, illuminating the various pieces of mismatched furniture that were pushed into corners. 

Oliver raised his head with some difficulty, glancing at the cozy setting. “Is this - is this where Slytherins come to get busy?  _ Is this your sex chamber _ ?” 

“Yeah,” Flint sat down next to him, lips curling up the slightest bit with amusement. “Don’t know how many generations of cumstains you’re lying on.” 

Oliver laughed again, feeling warm and happy and decidedly drunk. The nervousness that had trailed him all the way down into the dungeons had gone, his heart picking up speed instead.  _ Flint had brought him to the Slytherin sex chamber _ . If that wasn’t right on track with his plans, he didn’t know what was. 

“Let’s fuck, then,” he said without thinking, tossing his wand to the ground and grappling with the clasps on his school robes. 

“That why you came down here?” Flint asked, leaning a little closer. Oliver found himself breathless with the proximity, halting his movements. Flint had kept his distance these past few days, the complete bellend, and it had hurt, of course it had. Especially after they’d finally held a conversation like normal people. And what a bloody great conversation it had been. 

Oliver elected not to answer, continuing his clumsy disrobing. Flint watched him shrug out of his shirt and kick away his trousers, sitting with his arms crossed, the flickering light of the fire illuminating half of his impassive face. Even with his brain brandy-addled Oliver could see his eyes wandering, see the blatant want. And it lit something inside him on fire. 

“You know, I worked myself open tonight,” he said, aghast at his own words and desperately smug all at once. “With three - no, four fingers. I already came two times in the showers. And I kept thinking… wouldn’t it be great if this bloke with a huge dick was here -” 

Flint finally cracked, surging forward into a biting kiss and ending his monologue. 

  
  



	13. THIRTEEN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it, the fucking, at last.

_ Dear Zip, _

_ I’m sad to hear your grandmother has passed, please send my regards to your family. I’ll be home in ten days time, but I was thinking, why can’t you move out with me once the season starts? Flint Manor now has a total of four house elves, _ <strike>_ and I think that would be fucking more than enough for my parents _</strike>

<strike> _ I bet they won’t even notice _ </strike>

<strike> _ We could also take Flop _ </strike>

_ The Magpies are signing on five new chasers, so there goes my chance at playing this season. But who gives a damn, I finally get to leave this _ <strike>_ fucking _</strike> _ school. _

_ Best, _

_ Marcus _

  
  


\---

  
  


There was something to be said about shagging Oliver Wood. Namely that he was far from anyone else Marcus had fucked in his admittedly young life. Maybe it had to do with the Gryffindor being a buff bloke, though Marcus suspected otherwise. Wood was simply… very unabashedly himself. 

Annoying, bold, unnecessarily chatty. Really bloody intense. 

A drunk Oliver Wood, it turned out, was all of these things sans filter, which was to say - absolutely unashamed. Marcus found himself rather stunned, lying back on the grimy old couch in the infamous Slytherin shagging shack with Wood sitting astride him, jerking his cock with torturously slow strokes. 

“Give us some slick, Flint, c’mon,” Wood slurred, groping around for a wand. He was flushed pink all the way down to his chest, eyes half-lidded. Marcus found his wand tangled in the pockets of his robes on the floor and managed to conjure up some lubrication after three attempts, shuddering at the coolness splattering against his abdomen. 

“That’s better,” Wood told him with a smile, dragging his hand through the slick mess before slathering Marcus’ cock with it. “No offense, Flint, but honestly, _ this _ is probably my favourite part about you. _ Ow _ _!_ You mustn't - it was meant as a _ compliment _ _!_” 

Marcus held Wood’s nipple in a pinch, twisting repeatedly without letting go. Wood immediately went pliant, jerking slightly against the pleasure-pain, his hard dick rubbing against Marcus’ belly: “How about you keep doing that while - _ ow _ \- while fucking me? Come on, Flint, put your cock in me, I want it -” 

Marcus shut him up with a kiss, breathless with arousal. He could taste the alcohol on Wood’s tongue. Seemed like he too, had been letting loose after N.E.W.T.s week. It wasn’t difficult to imagine Wood joking about with his mates, letting himself be enveloped in hugs of all kinds, people ruffling his hair and patting his back. 

“Tell me again,” he said, suddenly needing to hear the words once more. 

“Have you gone deaf, Flint? I want you. To fuck. Me. And by Merlin’s beard, if you won’t do it, I’ll find someone else -” 

Marcus interrupted him by snaking one of his hands up, groping along Wood’s pert arse and finding his hole slick and puffy. Two fingers went in easily, and he moved them in and out a few times, just to see that flushed face hovering above him go tense with surprise and then slack with pleasure. Take it from a damned Gryffindor - always so sincere, so completely honest, even during sex. 

Wood dropped his head down, still on all fours bracketing Marcus’ torso, and let out a gut-punched mewl. A bit of scissoring garnered another moan, while a third finger shoving in reaped a surprised shout. Marcus raised his hips, letting the stiffness of his cock drag along Wood’s arse. “Tell me what you want,” he half-whispered, voice going rough. 

Wood stared at him uncomprehendingly, eyes glassy, mouth hanging half open. Marcus stared back for a while, taking in the mussed-up hair, the flush high on his cheeks. Then he reached down and positioned his cock at Wood’s hole, slipping and sliding a few times until the head pushed in. A wounded sound left Wood’s parted lips, hands gripping Marcus’ shoulders like vices. 

He didn’t move once sheathed inside the velvety heat, the crushing tightness almost enough to make him come on the spot. Wood was already bearing down with subtle movements, circling his hips in tiny fragments while slowly leaning back. He looked positively lewd, perched on top of Marcus, impaling himself at a deliberate pace. 

“Fucking - Merlin, Flint,” Wood choked out before sitting down completely. He was breathing like someone who had just spent the better part of the day doing suicide runs on the quidditch pitch, chest glistening with sweat, thighs shaking with the effort of holding position. Marcus couldn’t help it - he bucked up, one time, then two, viciously savouring the perfect tightness enveloping his cock. 

“Tell me what you want, Wood,” he said again, the mounting pleasure making him rather light-headed. 

Wood seemed somewhat delirious, still struggling to adjust, though his cock was jutting up at an obscene angle and betraying just how much he liked his current predicament. “I want you to - to fuck me, alright? Does that get you off, hearing me beg? You’re a bloody sadist, Flint, I knew it.” 

“Always with the name calling,” he countered, snapping up his hips a few times, hissing at the slick glide, the vice-like grip. “Tell me what it’s like.” 

“Like I’ve sat down on your dick, what do you think it feels like?” Wood snarked back, though the way his breath hitched took the edge off his words. He looked wrecked already, though they’d only just started, a tremor in the taut line of his back going all the way down to the fluttering clench of his hole. It suddenly occurred to Marcus that it was Wood’s first time trying this sort of thing with a bloke.

The thought touched upon something inside him, a sort of wicked joy, frighteningly possessive and entirely out of place. Marcus obviously had never been the type to overanalyze his own reactions, but something about this was disconcerting, to say the least. The way his pulse sped up even more, the way all of his nerve-endings were honed on the plastered Gryffindor clumsily trying to ride his cock, every touch close to electrifying. 

“My leg is cramping,” Wood’s voice had gone hoarse as well, his left hand now fisting around his erection in slow strokes. “Actually, legs. Both legs.” 

“You stretch after flying?”

“Of course I stretched, what do you take me for, an amateur?” 

Marcus grinned at that, an involuntary upward movement his face did all on its own. Oliver fucking Wood, still the most annoying Gryffindor in the castle. Abruptly and absurdly, it felt like they weren’t being close enough. Marcus didn’t hesitate at all, his limbs acting on their own accord. He sat up with his arms circled around Wood, their faces suddenly of a height, chests flush together. 

Then he did what Wood liked best, digging his nails into the dip of his tailbone with all the strength he had. 

Wood let out a choked-off groan, eyes fluttering closed while he jerked with the bruising pain. “Again, same spot,” he ordered, slightly wild-eyed. Marcus obeyed, though he slid his hand further down, twisting the flesh of Wood’s left buttock cruelly while snapping his hips up in quick succession. 

“Fucking - galloping gorgons - do that again!” 

Nonsensically, Marcus felt like laughing out loud. He briefly wondered whether he’d been the one to get sloshed - it would certainly explain away his strange reactions. Instead, he pushed Wood backwards until he was flat on his back, looking down on his sprawled out form. “Do what again?” 

“You had the angle right, you tosser,” Wood bellowed, looking fiercely determined for all that he was completely tousled and flushed. “I almost came right there. _ Flint, put your cock back in _!” 

“You,” Marcus said, punching his was back inside Wood’s arse. “Are. The most annoying. Fucking. Git.” He punctuated every word with a harsh thrust, stomach tightening with the need to rut away until coming his balls dry. 

“Merlin,” Wood managed to say with his head thrown back, the pale expanse of his throat ridiculously inviting. Marcus took without thinking twice, teeth sinking in and biting down until he almost tasted blood welling up to the surface. He was pounding away all the while, ears ringing with the intensity of the pleasure while Wood’s cursing receded into background noise. 

They came almost exactly at the same time, Wood rubbing his cock between their stomachs while Marcus buried his groans into the nape of his neck. It was a whole-body affair, stomach abuzz and limbs numb, sensations going absolutely haywire while bursts of colour danced before his closed eyelids. The rhythmic tightening of Wood’s slick channel sent spasms of pleasure up and down his spine while they both gasped for breath.

“Should’ve tried that sooner,” Wood said, voice breaking half-way through the sentence. Marcus loosened his grip, looking down on imprints that would soon turn into hand-shaped bruises on Wood’s waist and hip bone. He made to pull out, just for a heel to slam into the small of his back painfully, forcing him back in. 

“You already leaving, Flint?” 

“You want to go again? People need potions for that.”

“You need potion for your stamina?” 

“Can you stop -” 

Wood leaned up and kissed him, their bodies still joined together in a tacky mess. The kiss was hesitant, soft almost. Then Wood was reaching up, long-fingered, calloused hands framing Marcus’ face carefully. 

“What is it?” He asked after a while, letting himself be kissed, still reeling from the change of pace. One minute they were fucking like animals, the next Wood was caressing him like they were googly-eyed first years with a crush. 

“Nothing,” Wood said against his lips. There was something tense about his face, the way the corners of his mouth had turned downwards, brows drawing together. Then he let go, going slack against the old chaise lounge, eyes flicking to stare up at the ceiling. Marcus rolled off him and sat up immediately, eager for some distance. 

“I should go back up,” Wood murmured, still lying there with his legs akimbo. He had an honest face, Marcus noted. You always knew what the deal was when it came to Oliver Wood. Full on anger, excessive joy, coiled concentration. Now he looked upset, and visibly so. 

“I’m signing with the Magpies,” Marcus said out of nowhere, breaking the uneasy silence that had filled the room. He didn’t know why he volunteered the information. The familiar itch in his chest was back, even with the pleasure from sex still humming through him. Wood glanced up at him, brown eyes wide. 

“But - what about Falmouth? You said there was a scout after the final! She gave you her card, didn’t she?” 

“Yeah, she did. I just reckoned… Magpies wanted me from the start.” 

Wood sat up straight, mouth agape. He pushed an accusing finger into Marcus’ chest, looking absolutely indignant: “You turned down last year’s league champion - because of some sort of misguided loyalty towards the Magpies?” 

“Maybe I wanted to stay in Scotland,” Marcus huffed, crossing his arms. Wood’s disapproval irked him. 

“You aren’t even scottish, Flint!” 

“Oh, like you aren’t going to sign with Puddlemere because you’ve been a fanboy since day one!” 

“What? No! They simply - they placed really well last season, I’ll have you know…” 

They argued about it some more before tearing each other apart over training methods and the best internationals coming in from Europe and the Middle East. Then, inevitably, they carried on over the world cup. Wood insisted on going to any match where Bulgaria was involved, gushing about Lev Zograf and how he was constantly underestimated by the quidditch press. 

They conjured up a glass of water in between all the talking, sharing and refilling it between them while squabbling over the newest article on broom safety measures that had appeared in _ Seeker Weekly _. (“There’s barely any change from an old Comet 63, I won’t buy into the hype of a new balancing spell that easily, come on!”).

Marcus barely remembered summoning over an old blanket from a corner of the room, draping it over himself and then Wood. After a brief tug of war they managed to enlarge the blanket to twice its original size, which covered them both well enough. 

The last thing Marcus remembered before falling asleep was Oliver - no, Wood - blinking against heavy eyelids, smiling slightly. He had never spent the night in the Slytherin shagging shack before. He’d also never fallen asleep next to someone, accustomed to having his own space. 

Still, it felt neither strange nor wrong when an arm snaked its way around his waist, the warm puff of breath ghosting against his shoulder. 

  
  



	14. FOURTEEN.

“Hey, Oliver?”

With a feeling of dread pooling in his stomach, Oliver stopped short at the bottom of the staircase leading to the boy’s dormitory, broom clutched in hand. The last embers of the fire were exuding an orange glow, casting the empty Gryffindor common room in a warm half-light. In a corner armchair, Patricia Stimpson was sitting up, rubbing her eyes, face adorably creased with sleep. 

“You’re still up, Patty,” he said lightly, trying and failing to ignore the fact that she’d obviously nodded off while waiting up for him. “Even Fred and George have gone to get their beauty sleep.” 

“Well, yeah. I’ve been meaning to speak to you. For ages now, to be honest. But, uh… you’re kind of a difficult person to get a hold of, these days.” She smoothed back her hair and sat up a little straighter. The plain honesty in her voice flooded his chest with guilt, and with a bit-down sigh Oliver leaned his broom against the side of a snoring portrait and went to sit down next to her. 

“Uhm, well,” Patty said, cheeks pinking, though she was no less bold than usual. “I like you, if that hasn’t been obvious until now.” Oliver made to speak, but she held up a hand, forging on. “You’re leaving school, and I know you’re very busy with quidditch, I completely understand. But I was wondering…” 

Oliver sighed out loud this time, interrupting her speech. He immediately felt like a complete wanker, motioning for her to go on, cringing inwardly. He had, in fact, been dreading this moment ever since they’d kissed post-match all those months ago. 

“I was just wondering whether you’d still like to keep seeing me after you leave. We could write. And there’s Hogsmeade.” There was something defiant in her eyes, and for a second Oliver found it in himself to admire her tenacity, the sheer bravery it took to lay her feelings out in the open. Then his arse twinged from where Flint had been fucking him in the quidditch shed half an hour ago, and it was gone.

“I… Patty, I’m really sorry.” A brief silence occured after he had spoken, Patty sticking her chin up and nodding repeatedly, eyes going glossy. Oliver reached out in a comforting gesture and quickly snatched his hand back when the tears started flowing. “It’s just… There’s someone else.” 

Patty froze, dropping the sleeve that she had been using to wipe at her nose, an incredulous look on her wet face. “Who?”, she blurted out, before quickly correcting herself. “Sorry, sorry. You don’t have to say. It’s just… you don’t seem interested in anyone at all! D’you know how surprised I was when you kissed me after the Ravenclaw match?”

Oliver grimaced, stalling for time while he digged around his quidditch robes for a handkerchief. He searched for words while Patricia blew her nose noisily and ended up with nothing but the truth: “Marcus Flint.” 

A few moments passed in which Oliver fidgeted, heartbeat picking up speed, while Patty gaped at him. Then she burst out laughing, snorting a bit, quickly raising the drenched handkerchief to her face. “I was, like, going to guess Amy McDougal, or _ someone_, but… honestly, _ Marcus Flint?_” 

“Yeah, honestly,” Oliver said, suddenly flooded with discomfort. Would Patricia Stimpson go around tattering to people? Had it been the wrong impulse to just straight-out tell her? His anxiety must have shown, because Patty sobered remarkably fast, staring at him with wide eyes: “You’re absolutely serious. You and Flint? Marcus Flint - he likes blokes?” 

Oliver shrugged. Flint had liked him well enough just now, bent over against the wall. He flushed at the thought, shifting in his armchair. His thighs ached with a pleasant soreness, the various bruises on his backside and down his flanks smarting in a dull throb. They’d seen each other every day since that one night in the Slytherin shagging shack, fucking like kneazles in heat and arguing like the fanatics that they were. Today, on the last day of the school term, the quidditch shed had served as yet another secretive backdrop to their… affair, or whatever it was that they were doing. 

“But - isn’t he quite mean?” Patty was still trying to gather her wits, looking rather put-out with the idea of anyone liking Marcus Flint. Oliver couldn’t help himself, barking out a laugh. Hadn’t he had exactly nursed these thoughts almost a year ago? Who in their sodding right mind would fancy _ Marcus Flint?_

Patty, meanwhile, had ceased her crying and was casting him a look with her eyebrows raised so high they almost disappeared: “Are you properly together now? As in, together as a couple?” 

Clearing his throat, Oliver quickly shook his head. They were rivals, fuckbuddies, maybe even friends of some kind. But it had been made abundantly clear that anything that went beyond those fine lines wasn’t possible. Flint had literally turned and left that one time Oliver dared to call him by his first name. 

Patty squinted at him, nose still red from when she’d been blowing it: “So you’re just shagging?” 

“Yeah, turns out we’re…” Oliver broke off his sentence, unsure of its ending. Turned out flying with Flint was great fun! Turned out Flint gave mind-wrecking blowjobs! Turned out Oliver had fallen arse over tits! “The sex is wicked,” he said lamely after a moment of tense silence. 

“But… Flint! I mean, I suppose he’s quite built, but - He’s just so - broody and angry, and -” Patty swallowed back her words, casting a sideways look at Oliver. Her face had mostly dried, eyes going puffy, strands of messy hair framing her face. She was quite lovely, he noticed with regret. It simply had never made a lasting impression on him. 

“I know,” Oliver muttered faintly, sagging against his armchair. This talk had been beyond exhausting. They sat together for a while, sending each other quick glances every now and then. Finally, when the clock had already struck half-past-two in the morning, Patty got up, eyes bright, Oliver’s sodden handkerchief still clutched in her hand. 

“Thank you for being honest with me. I suppose sometimes that’s just how things go… And, well, Oliver?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I won’t tell anyone.” 

And with that, she turned and walked up the stairs to the girl’s dormitories. 

  
  
  


\---

  
  
  


It turned out to be one of those nights. 

Oliver sat by the embers of the fire for another hour, fatigue making his eyelids droop, while endless thoughts played on in his head. He had five different tryouts lined up in the month following graduation. The statistics and formations of each team kept coming back to him in random, anxious bouts of numbers and player names. 

He could admit to himself that he was terrified of not making it. It was wholly irrational - he knew that. But not playing professional would put his whole life on hold, vanish everything that filled his days. Of course, not making it would also mean that this thing between Flint and himself would end definitely. 

He got up and headed down towards the quidditch pitch once again when the sky turned a mellow pink above the forbidden forest. It wasn’t until he was high up in the air that the nostalgia welled up: Hogwarts looked magnificent, almost golden with the first rays of the rising sun. The towers and crenellations, the gleaming windows, the grand portal. For the first time since finishing his N.E.W.T.s Oliver felt a pang of regret at his imminent departure.

He took a wider route that he normal would have, flying low over the lake, passing by the whomping willow and Hagrid’s hut. He was circling the astronomy tower for the third time when he noticed someone else doing loopings over the treetops. Heart beating a strange, sluggish rhythm in his chest, Oliver glided closer, watching as Flint somersaulted half off his broom, sunlight gleaming on his sweat-slick dark hair. 

“Oi!” He called out, listening to his voice being swallowed by the wide open air. 

Flint stopped his mid-air acrobatics, slouching back on his broom. He dragged a hand across his forehead, squinting with his brows drawn. Then, to Oliver’s devastation, he smiled a little. Just a smidgen of a thing that lifted one side of his mouth up and smoothed out the rest of his face. 

“You up again, Wood?” 

Oliver nudged his broom forwards until they were hovering side by side, facing the brilliant play of colours against the retreating dark of night. The stars were guttering out, one by one, going pale against what promised to be another warm summer day. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” Oliver confessed. 

“Hmm,” Flint offered, before coming up with his usual sly smirk. “Did I shag you too hard?” 

“Barely felt a thing,” Oliver shot back immediately, though he could feel himself grinning. “What, are you quite satisfied with your performance?” 

“I distinctly remember you telling me to - Hey!” 

Oliver laughed out loud, jostling into the Slytherin, both of them dropping a few meters. His body reacted before he could even finish thinking, shooting off towards the goal hoops lining the quidditch field like an arrow, Flint hot on his broomtail. They chased each other across the school grounds, whooping and yelling like madmen. _ Merlin _ , Oliver thought while Flint pulled up at an angle, slamming into his side and sending them both spiralling downwards until they’d landed in a heap on the dewy pitch. _ Merlin, I bloody love quidditch _ . _ And he does, too _. 

They lay some ways apart, both panting for breath and gripping their brooms. 

Oliver closed his eyes briefly, fighting the urge to simply roll over and maul Flint. He remembered Patty’s incredulous stare at his confession, the disbelief in her eyes. Turning to glance at the Slytherin in question, he tried to see what others saw: a sharp nose, slightly crooked. A long, angular face. A jaw still lopsided despite Madam Pomfrey fixing the teeth. Ears that stuck out a little. Hooded grey eyes. It set his heart to hammering, arousal spiking into his gut. 

“The fuck are you staring at?” Flint said without heat, tilting his head backwards. The sun had risen properly now, bathing them both in glorious warmth. Oliver shrugged out of his quidditch robes, peeling off his sweat soaked shirt beneath. He was blindingly pale in the light, but it felt so good that he dropped back half-naked with a satisfied sigh. 

He burst out laughing at Flint’s disgruntled face. “What, is this too scandalous for your sensibilities, Flint? Am I being to forward?” 

“We can’t shag out here in the open.” 

“Ah, so you wanted to shag me!” 

“What else have we been doing these past months?” 

“Point,” Oliver managed to get in edgeways before Flint was already descending on him, straightforward in that no-nonsense way he always seemed to have when it came to fucking. Their lips met in a clatter of teeth, biting, nipping, the usual heated exchange of saliva. Oliver groaned into it, body seizing up with the touch, flushed with want and the sunlight beating down on them. 

They fucked right there, out in the open, and then one more time while trying to clean off furtively in the quidditch showers. Thinking back, it did seem half a miracle to Oliver that nobody chanced upon them half-dressed. Like a protective spell laid over their last time together, something guarded and precious and finite. 

He didn’t see much of Flint during breakfast, catching only glimpses of him while bidding his goodbyes to his friends, his team, his teachers. Madam Hooch and Professor McGonagall gifted him with a framed photograph of their final victory against the Slytherins. They had never bothered to take a team picture, but this one had all of them in - jumping, shouting, embracing one another. Fred and George were heaving him up onto their shoulders, chanting something. Harry was holding on to the quidditch cup, looking dazed while Angelina, Alicia and Katy hugged him from all sides. Various Gryffindors darted in and out of the frame: Percy, gleefully clapping with his spectacles askew, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley fighting their way through the crowd. Jeremiah Larch, Andrew Warbeck, the lads from the Gobstone Club. Everyone was there. 

“Aww, Olli, don’t cry,” Alicia and Katie said in unison while he wiped at his eyes discreetly. They enveloped him into a hug that lasted much longer than usual while the photograph was passed along the breakfast table, everyone cooing and ah-ing at it. 

“You’re the best captain I’ve ever had,” Harry told him while he made to stand up, bacon and eggs forgotten with all the emotional turmoil. 

“I’m the only captain you’ve ever had!” Oliver exclaimed before pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. “Still,” the younger boy insisted, muffled against his chest, voice dead-serious. 

He spent his last train ride on the Hogwarts express switching between different compartments, chatting to all the people he wouldn’t see again come fall. Fred and George performed a song about him defeating the Slytherins which had everyone in stitches. They played a few games of exploding snap and cast silly charms on one another. Patricia Stimpson came in once to hug him goodbye, kissing both his cheeks under playful laughter and well-meant jeers.

All the seventh years promised each other to owl regularly, to keep in touch no matter where they were headed. For the few hours that were left, every single person seemed to be cast in the rosy light of nostalgia, of the seven long years they’d spent together. Even Percy didn’t keep his nose buried in some book, laughing at the antics and chiming in at times, though of course he hadn’t thought to take off his head-boy badge.

And then, all of a sudden, it was over. 

Oliver was greeted by his mum and dad on a crowded platform 9¾ with students milling about, owls clucking in their cages, friends bidding their last goodbyes. It was yet another miracle, in hindsight, how he’d found Marcus Flint in the unholy ruckus. But for some reason, their eyes caught each other across the platform, too far away to say anything, but close enough to see. There wasn’t anyone with Flint, though Oliver saw him bend down to speak to someone a few times. 

Some part inside him wanted to dash over, maybe bump shoulders for a last time. But his mum was already tugging at his arm, speaking about this and that while dabbing at her eyes, proclaiming how proud she was and how Uncle Maxwell would floo in for dinner. He turned back one last time, heart beating an uneven staccato against his ribs. Flint’s tall form stuck out among the bustling crowd. Oliver raised his hand in an awkward wave, throat suddenly constricted with unshed tears. 

For a split-second before passing through the barrier, he saw Flint nodding towards him, lips turning up into half a smile. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've an epilogue of sorts coming up next week. But this is it for now - I've left myself room for part two, I suppose. Let me know what you think. 
> 
> x


	15. FIFTEEN. (EPILOGUE)

The champagne had gone warm. 

Beth hid a yawn behind a gloved hand, scanning the room for the umpteenth time that evening. The view hadn’t changed a single bit: Chandeliers aglitter with living pixies, blue flames roaring in the handsome fireplace, house elves with platters of delicacies atop their heads scuttling by, floating bottles of Ogden’s finest. And of course, the cream of wizarding high society prancing around with their offspring. She had been at Avery estate with her cousin Minette for one and a half endless hours now, making polite, stilted small talk while holding onto their champagne flutes with stiffening wrists. 

“I might off myself if this goes on any longer,” she told her cousin, smoothing away imagined wrinkles from her gown. Privately, she liked to think of it has her broodmare gown, a resplendent piece made with ermine and heavy satin. It fitted the unspoken but heavily implied rule of such gatherings: further the inbreeding among the Sacred-Twenty-Eight, though of course minus the blood traitors and muggle friends. 

Minette, bless her soul, managed to look charmingly puzzled in her refusal to utter even a single word in English. Beth repeated the sentence in French, daring to speak a mite louder. “Ah, calme-toi, Velebeth. Treat it as the silly game that it is. See, more bachelor purebloods have arrived!” Minette flashed her a quick grin, faking a sip from her flute. “You must introduce me and translate.” 

“Ha!” Beth blurted out in response, amusement making her grin despite herself. “You want to be introduced to Marcus Flint, Minny?”

“Mon Dieu, don’t tell me you’ve already fucked this one?” 

“You bet your chateau I have. How do _ you _ have fun at Beauxbatons?” 

They shared a secretive smile before linking arms and walking towards old Reginald Flint, slimy Lucius Malfoy and their respective sons, who were standing apart and looking in different directions. Flint had seemingly managed to grow another few inches in the month Beth hadn’t seen him, half a head taller than most of the room. 

“Marcus,” she inclined her head, year-long training kicking in for the type of social setting. 

“Velebeth,” he answered after a beat of silence, looking almost pained at having to say her name out loud. 

“May I introduce my cousin Minette? She has only just graduated from Beauxbatons with honours.” 

“Enchantée,” Minette simpered. She never could withstand the tall ones. They moved off to another corner, leaving the Malfoy boy standing by himself. As always, Anwar Shafiq spotted them within minutes and conveniently invited himself into their cozy little circle, gobbling down hors d'Oeuvres while yammering on about everything. They harassed one another over their N.E.W.T.s results, Beth translating for Minette all the while. 

She managed to inconspicuously insert herself besides Flint once the topic turned to the upcoming Quidditch World Cup final between Ireland and Bulgaria. “Congratulations! Montrose Magpies, your father must be so proud.” 

Flint pulled a face, managing to look disgusted and bored at the same time: “Always is, my old man.” 

Beth snuck a glance around the room, stopping when she saw three blonde hairdos at varying heights. Little Astoria, pretty Daphne and haughty Calliope. She quickly turned around when the oldest sister started advancing on them, nudging Flint in the ribs: “Calliope Greengrass is coming your way... _ no, don’t look__,_ you imbecile! Act surprised.”

Flint gave her an unimpressed glare but managed to ignore Greengrass until she was right in front of him. 

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Greengrass said, cutting straight to the point in that brash manner she’d honed to perfection during her years at Hogwarts. There was a rather large, noticeable ring set with sapphires sparkling aggressively on her left hand. 

“Oh yes, I’ve heard so too,” Beth cut in. The bloody cow had obviously come to gloat at Flint. She switched to French without a hitch, smiling at Minette: “Our dear Calliope is engaged to be married. The lucky one is Calix Yaxley, you must know him, his father does business in Bordeaux often.” 

“Félicitations!” Cried Minette, throwing her hands up in the air. She was rather enjoying her little act. “I hear he had a problem with dragon pox?” 

“Oh yes, the dragon pox,” Beth intoned, long-suffering. A sideways look told her that Flint was doing his disaffected half-smirk. The git could never show even a smidgen of amusement. “It matters most what’s on the inside, don’t you all think so?” 

Calliope Greengrass had turned an unbecoming shade of puce. Watching her stony face made Beth feel a vindictive sort of pleasure on behalf of Flint. They were something akin to friends, after all, with or without the regular shagging. “Marcus, will you be so kind and keep me company at the bar? You know what they say of witches and firewhiskey…” 

Flint barely waited for her, stepping away with haste and disappearing behind a cluster of elderly wizards holding a heated argument over chess. Beth shot Greengrass a last nasty glare before plucking a grape from Shafiq’s plate and hurrying after him. Minette grinned at her openly, fluttering away in search of the ladies’ room, leaving Greengrass and Shafiq standing by themselves. 

“So… dragon pox,” she heard Shafiq say from a distance, suppressing the urge to burst out laughing. “Never had it, must be awful, ey?” 

“You’re a nasty piece of work,” Flint told her from behind the bar, though he was grinning as well. “Greengrass was after your brother, wasn’t she?” 

“Oh, like Felix would ever marry such a -” Beth quickly swallowed back her words, smiling at an elderly wizard passing by. “_Such a lovely, lovely young witch_. After she scorned you for being too stupid...” Flint simply shrugged, familiar scowl creeping back onto his face. Beth knew he hated speaking about that episode with the botched engagement last summer. 

They talked back and forth, exchanging bits of gossip and sneering at the people crowding the room. There went Theo Nott’s older brother Atticus, two years out of Hogwarts and a rising star in magical law enforcement. Flora and Hestia Carrow were squabbling openly, their oldest brother Lloyd sitting with his fiancé Euphemia Rowle, looking decidedly unhappy. Three square-jawed Bulstrodes were muttering among themselves by the fire. 

Flint, full-blooded athlete that he was, didn’t touch a single drop of alcohol. Beth had known him for the better part of her life - he’d never been one to show any emotions besides anger easily. He talked mostly about the Montrose training camp, the start of the season at the end of August, the spanking new Siberian Arrow he’d been assigned. 

“You know you can’t dodge me forever,” she told him mildly after they fell silent for a few moments, both watching Shafiq flirt outrageously with cousin Minette from a distance. “This thing with Wood…” 

Flint, predictably, reacted like a stung hippogriff, facial expression going from somewhat bored to absolutely thunderous. Beth held his angry stare, tapping her wand against the rim of her champagne flute with a chilling spell. She tossed back her drink and settled for another uncomfortable topic she’d been meaning to broach: “And what were the terms your father set? He couldn’t have willingly let you go play quidditch without -” 

“Do we have to fucking do this right here?” 

“Where the fuck else, Flint? It’s not like you answer any of my damned letters!”

“I answered you!” 

“_Once__._ I’ve been writing you all bleeding summer long.” 

“Well, how about _ you tell me _ who they’ve picked for you -” 

“Oh, you can’t be so daft. Been fucking yapping about it since year five! How Wood can even stand you -”

Flint’s eyes went dark. She’d properly angered him, that was apparent. The topic of Wood was something utterly unbroachable. Never mind that the Gryffindor had crawled all the way down to the dungeons clutching his bleeding heart, asking for Flint while half-slouching against the stairs. By Salazar, she had been the one to find him, lost and drunk and painfully, obviously infatuated. 

“Need some air,” he said through gritted teeth, taking the route through the sitting room out into the french gardens with a few strides of his long legs. Disapparating while in polite society was frowned upon, to say the least. So he wasn’t angry enough to forget himself. Beth swallowed down her irritation and picked up a refill from a squeaking house elf in a dish rag. 

She rejoined Minette and Shafiq, mind racing with enough distractions that she didn’t even mind their saucy back and forth. Oliver Wood: handsome, wholesome, boring and utterly transparent. He had been so crushingly obvious with his affection, it still made Beth gag to think back upon it. She’d taken care to watch them in the last few days before graduation - all the glances they’d exchanged, the bloody midnight flying, fucking in the shagging shack, full blown make-out sessions in empty hallways... 

The second flute of bubbly was already empty when she thought to head out and find Flint, the complete pillock. She snatched herself a new one, feeling the alcohol in her bloodstream with an unpleasant jolt. At least the air outside was balmy, floating lights illuminating the splendid gardens. A peacock called out somewhere. 

It didn’t take her very long at all to find him. Flint was standing with his father, looking stiffer than a corpse, eyes cast downwards. They looked remarkably similar, Reginald Flint and his only son and heir. Tall and broad-shouldered, with faces long and sharp. The similarity ended there. Flint Senior had an unpleasant authority about him, something that demanded attention and obedience. Marcus, while clearly no shy lamb, looked downright approachable in comparison. 

“Ah, Velebeth Rosier,” Reginald Flint had spied her approaching, mouth twisting into a thin-lipped smile. It was obvious that she was one of the prime candidates he was considering for his son, no matter that her own father was busy negotiating her dowry with the Shafiqs. 

“Mr. Flint, I was hoping to find Marcus for a stroll in the gardens. It’s ever so pleasant this evening.” Beth channeled her inner Minette, going moony-eyed and soft. It worked its wonders: Marcus extended an arm begrudgingly under the reprimanding gaze of his father, and off they went towards the relative privacy amongst the manicured bushes. 

“They want me to marry Anwar Shafiq next spring,” she told him straight out, as a way of reconciliation. 

Flint glanced back at his father before heaving out a sigh. “You fucking hate Shafiq.” 

“Well, his one thousand year old bloodline begs to differ.” 

“Merlin, that bloodline,” Flint said, voice dry but not entirely void of humour. “You must have other suitors?” 

Beth looked up at him and raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Flint steered them past a statue of Such-and-such Avery, taking a turn into the maze. Their voices took on a dampened quality, the lights of the mansion abruptly gone. Above them, the stars of the summer sky seemed to go brighter. 

“I’ve decided that I’ll be off travelling,” she said, voice close to a whisper. “I’ll be fucked before they make me marry Shafiq, or any other pureblood wanker. It’s a rite of passage, taking the Grand Tour. At least it is for wizards.”

Flint was quiet in the dark. He shrugged off her hand, turning to sit on one of the many ornate benches lining the path. “They’ll make you once you come back,” he sighed out. “My father…” 

“Oh, I’ve heard his intentions loud and clear back there.” 

“I just want to fucking play quidditch!” 

“I thought about it, you know - we could get married, and then you’ll continue killing yourself on your broomstick and I’ll have my husband’s full permission to do whatever the fuck I wanted…” 

“No.” 

“_Of course not__._” 

“They’ll expect children.” Flint said in lieu of an explanation, unease obvious in his voice. Beth buried her face in her palms, smudging some of the carefully applied rouge, no doubt. She suddenly felt bone tired, a deep weariness no pepper-up potion could fix.

“You see why I have to go, then, right?” 

Flint grunted, face unreadable. She suddenly wondered whether he was this guarded with Oliver Wood. Whether him and Wood were still fucking. If they laughed at things together, or had meaningful talks deep into the night. As much as she’d known Flint for more than a decade now, had shagged him through most of seventh year, he’d never truly told her anything important. They were friends, or allies, or _ something__,_ but they certainly weren’t lovers. 

“I heard my father the other night - they want to host a memorial dinner for my uncle.” The heavy topics simply wouldn’t end. Beth left out the term ‘Death Eater’, not wanting to say the words out loud. There was no need - everyone knew which cause Evan Rosier died for. “I intend to be gone by then.” 

Flint pulled a face, shoulders tensing up. “Let me guess, my old man is invited?”

“Guest of honour along with Malfoy, Avery, Yaxley, Nott…” 

“I just want to play quidditch,” Flint interrupted her, voice gravelly. He sounded bewildered, as if he could escape the total bigoted mess of their upbringing by repeating his little quidditch sentence often enough. They both fell silent, listening to the dampened sounds of merriment, glasses clinking, the low buzz of voices. Flint was leaning back, neck craned towards the star-lit sky, deep in his thoughts. Whatever it was that he thought of.

“Which team does Wood play for, again?” Beth didn’t know where the impulse sprang from, but the question left her lips all nonchalant. 

“He made reserve keeper for Puddlemere.” 

Flint kept staring upwards while answering. He sounded like someone not fully present. The words dropped from his lips thoughtlessly, like he had silently digested the bit of information on Oliver Wood making keeper for Puddlemere, over and over, until it became just another fixture in his thoughts. Beth suddenly found herself strangely breathless. She sat in silence until he jerked upright, realizing his predicament.

She glanced at his profile, taking in the stricken look that disappeared with a flash. It suddenly occurred to her that this wizard here was her best bet at a happy life if she stayed. A life of playing wife and mother to Marcus Flint and his children. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad - she knew far worse matches, with little love lost and even less intimacy. Yet the thought alone made her want to retch. 

“Listen, Rosier - I don’t know what you’re on about…” 

“Take care, Marcus,” she interrupted him, swallowing against the pressure rising in her throat. “I have to go back now, mustn't leave Minette all by herself.”

Their hands found each other in a tight grasp, concealed by the darkness. Beth leaned towards him, and in a rare show of affection, Flint loped an arm around her until they were locked in an odd sideways hug. A pity hug of mutual commiseration, a hug of a shared understanding, a hug that promised silence on all the topics they’d breached between the bushes. 

“Yeah, take care, Beth,” Flint said against her hair, muffled voice coming out in a deep sigh. 

“I’m sorry about Wood.” 

“It was never meant to -” he swallowed with an audible click. “You know…” 

“I do actually, yeah.” 

And with a final squeeze they both let go, Beth smoothing out her gown and dabbing at her eyes before finding her way back, sure-footed and upright.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've definitely left myself room for part two. As a matter of fact, I've been writing it already: Wood and Flint during the Second Wizarding War. It is vastly different to this fic, which was fun and light and endlessly amusing to write. 
> 
> We'll see.


End file.
